


some moments are rare

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Art Student Zayn, Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Photographer Liam, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Study abroad au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The city blinks awake outside but Zayn falls asleep with his nose pressed to Liam’s coffee-stain of a birthmark.</i>
</p><p>(or, alternatively: Zayn is spending a summer studying aboard; thirty days across Europe, with his best mate by his side.  It's always been like this ― <i>Zayn and Liam</i>.  And he's always been a bit daft about love, or the fact that Liam's always been in love with him.  It's all a bit of a mess, actually.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	some moments are rare

**Author's Note:**

> this idea came from a long drive to work one night. good music and cute thoughts. just wanted to write a bit of fluff, two best friends travelling different cities, figuring their lives out. it turned into this. hopefully it's quite bearable as it's written in a slightly different style than usual.
> 
> huge thanks to Ashley for looking this over, supporting me, and making a sick banner! also, thank you to eszter for giving me information on paris and amsterdam. this is all for you, babes!
> 
> title comes from lyrics in "take me back" by paperwhite

 

 

 

 

He’s spent most of his life being brilliant at three things ― drawing, having a maddeningly fond obsession over comic book characters, and being absolutely _daft_ when it comes to falling in love.

Zayn knows what it’s like ― the being in love part. The way your heart pulses like a drum and the sweaty palms, how you get a bit dizzy in the head. Being so engrossed in someone that you forget your own name.

He’s just never, well, associated it with anyone in particular for too long. On purpose.

His older sister thinks he’s a bit mental and his mum swears _‘it’ll come in time, sunshine, just wait for it’_ but he’s not lingering around for it.

Why be bothered when he has bloody university to focus on and being enrolled in a sick art program and all of his mates to keep him preoccupied?

He’d prefer curl around a sketchbook in some campus coffee shop with shit college music playing and a cigarette tucked behind his ear, trying to perfect his Superman technique, rather than listen to some bloke talk all about how pretty his eyes are or some bird complimenting his cheekbones while pushing her chest into his view.

(Maybe Doniya’s right ― he’s a bit fucked in the head.)

Still, he’s spent a good amount of his teenage years scribbling it all into a journal ― his thoughts, poems he can remember from sixth form, lyrics to all his favorite tunes, anything he can think of. This worn down journal, bound in leather with half of the pages starting to fall out, his uncle Sid gave him on Eid when he was fourteen.

Just a collection of words for his eyes only. He doesn’t share his journal with anyone.

It’s all he really needs ―

His art and comic books, his journal, and being an idiot about love.

And, well, his best mate Liam, too. Because Liam is brilliant at _everything_ , Zayn thinks, and maybe that’s why Zayn’s certain he’s never been in love on purpose.

It’s an _accident_ that starts a bit like this ―

 

//

 

**London – 22:39 PM**

_‘Remember what Robert Frost said ―_ “In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.”

_Praise the amazing and applaud the magnificent!_

_Now what do I pack?’_

 

//

 

It’s not the flash of early sunlight burning fluorescent tangerine across his eyelids that wakes him up. It’s not the incessant snoring from across the room or the shiver of goosebumps running up his skin from a cracked window letting in the dewy morning air either. It’s not his body reacting to some natural instinct to wake up before noon ―

Definitely not.

Because he thinks mornings are unkind and brutal. He can’t remember the last time he willingly saw a sunrise. He hasn’t smiled at any hour before eleven without a reason (an early class last term that he fully regrets, a hangover and the need to piss out the last of his buzz, sneaking out of some one-off’s uni room without being caught) or a middle finger salute to the bloody early-to-rise birds outside his window.

It’s the alarm on Niall’s damn phone that he can’t ignore. It’s vibrating all across the desk, this constant _‘the tide is high but I’m holding on I’m gonna be your number one’_ that Niall completely disregards because he’s always braindead to the world when he sleeps.

A fucking, useless knob who Zayn absolutely adores.

Except when his alarm goes off too early in the morning.

Zayn shoves his face into his pillow, groaning, flopping onto his stomach. He wants it all to go away – the sun, the alarm, the stupid Blondie tune – but he knows it won’t.

It never does.

He kicks back the duvet with a huff, the room still out of focus when he bats his eyes open. The light stings his retinas and everything looks like it’s swimming for a few seconds as he stumbles out of bed, blindly adjusting his morning stiffy in his pants, shuffling bare feet over the cold floors to smack his hand over the phone a few times until it goes quiet.

“Fucking tosser,” Zayn mumbles when Niall barely flinches in his bed.

He presses his grin into his shoulder, shaking his head, shagging a hand through his tangled hair for a moment. He glares at Niall until he finally shifts, mumbling drowsily – spread all across his messy bed like a dead starfish.

“Wh’time’sit bro?” Niall asks, yawning loudly. He tosses a hand over his eyes, stretching until the bones beneath his pale skin crack stubbornly.

Zayn shrugs, even though Niall isn’t watching him. He staggers sleepily back to his bed, perching on the end of it.

“S’too early,” he huffs, scratching at his morning stubble.

The room is starting to blink into clearer images – Niall’s clothes tossed off across the room, Zayn half-packed bag by the foot of his bed, dirty boxers hanging off the knob of the door, bad Chinese takeaway on Niall’s side of the room, Zayn’s journal tucked under a pile of comic books.

Bright spots from the sun, all rusted gold and pale flaxen, in his vision. This tiny batcave of a university flat – too small for their fresher year but he’s done complaining about it.

(Besides, Louis does it enough for the three of them – even if he got the solo room.)

“Fuck,” Niall sighs. “Quite the bender last night, eh?”

Zayn chuckles under his breath. “Wouldn’t know. Stayed in.”

“Right, right,” Niall hums, blindly waving a hand around like he understands. “Prep for the trip or sommat. Missed a sick night, Zee. Massive orgy down in the common’s room or sommat. Had a few pints, messed about on the Xbox.”

“Same routine, Ni,” Zayn yawns. His tongue flicks over his dry lips and he finally starts to feel his muscles come alive.

Niall nods, grinning with a forearm still thrown over his eyes. “Epic.”

Zayn rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment. He’s never got any of it – the keggers or the _‘same drinks, different shag partner’_ routine most of the students from his year had fallen into since their first term started up.

It’s not his thing, honestly. He prefers a night in with awful takeaway, shitty early Marvel films, a few beers and the whistle of a quiet night outside his window.

(Another example of why he’s certain Doniya thinks he’s a bit mental, obviously.)

“Whatevs,” Niall exhales, lips twitching a little higher with his smile. He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his knuckles.

Zayn’s always been a bit amazed how quickly Niall can go from dead to the world to this bright fleck of the sun. This crooked smile and sleepy eyes a clear blue, blush-ridden cheeks a sharp contrast to his pale skin. He always looks so _alive_ – it’s a bit frightening, if Zayn’s being honest.

“Today’s a big day, you legend,” he beams. “A holiday – “

“It’s not a holiday,” Zayn groans, pouting. “It’s a study abroad program. Hardly a vacation, Ni – “

“ – all across Europe. Thirty days away from this shithole,” Niall continues as if Zayn has never said a single word. He rubs absently at some blood red imprint from the pillow across his cheek. “Perfect hols, if y’ ask me. Thirty days, being a lad, with _your_ Liam – “

Zayn’s mouth clicks open to correct him but – well, no. He and Liam are a bit attached at the hip or sommat. Best mates without the blood promises or spit handshakes.

“Just you two,” Niall adds, a bit cheekily.

“And about fifty other students,” Zayn says gruffly, his voice still scratched and raw from sleep.

Niall levels him with an intense glare for a moment, his grin still just a bit too wide for Zayn’s liking.

“Perfect, sweet, dear Leeymo,” Niall sighs, his expression put upon and dreamy.

“Shut up,” Zayn smirks, flipping him off. “Don’t take the piss at ‘im. He’s sensitive.”

“And madly in love with you,” Niall sings and Zayn goes tense instantly.

It’s like all of his joints are threaded with ice and his blood stops moving and he can’t swallow. It’s uncomfortable, like waking up in bed with all the linen kicked off in the middle of winter.

“He’s not,” Zayn hisses, narrowing his eyes at Niall.

There’s a carelessly wide smile on Niall’s lips – the defiant little bastard.

“Get in, bro,” he laughs, his face scrunching up with the noise. “The lad definitely is, mate.”

“Not,” Zayn bites.

Niall shrugs, fluffing up a pillow to drop his head onto. “He _is_. Quite certain he walks around with a massive chubby over you all the time. Huge stiffy thinkin’ about – “

Zayn hurls one of his pillows at Niall. His aim is poor but it smacks softly to the side of Niall’s head and he feels accomplished. Far from victorious but it’ll suffice.

Niall flashes him a wide-eyed look for a moment before tipping back with a laugh, kicking his feet out, arse-naked under the covers except for a ragged old pair of heart-riddled boxers. He’s an absolute bastard with his jagged smile and bright eyes but Zayn still adores him.

(Not quite as much as Liam but – fucking hell.)

“You’re an arse,” he mutters, instead. “Absolute rubbish.”

“But it’s true,” Niall argues, his voice shredded but kind.

“S’not,” Zayn huffs.

“Tommo! Zayno is in denial about Leeymo again,” Niall shouts towards the door.

It’s almost instant, like Aladdin rubbing at the lamp, the way Louis shoulders through the door after Niall beckons. He looks soft and disheveled, still half-sleep with wild hair and a toothbrush sitting foamy in a corner of his mouth. His jogging bottoms hang off the slight curve of his hips while he clutches two water bottles, blindly tossing Niall one while knocking his fringe out of his eyes.

“Rough night, then?” Zayn teases with a wry smile.

Louis flips him off, shuffling in, lazily flopping down on Niall’s bed.

“Mornin’,” he grumbles by way of a greeting towards Niall, spitting out the toothpaste into a used red plastic cup knocked over on Niall’s nightstand.

Niall wriggles his eyebrows instead of replying, their own stupidly secret language. He drains half of the bottled water while tucking a hand into Louis’ wrecked hair, sighing.

“Young Zayno here,” Niall starts but Louis tuts immediately.

“Awful nickname, Horan,” he grunts.

Niall shrugs and Louis sulks a bit, still too knackered to argue him down about it. Instead, he pinches Niall’s thigh and grins proudly at the yelp it draws from Niall.

“Zayno,” Niall exhales, still happily scratching fingers over Louis’ scalp, “refuses to admit that our sweet Payno is a bit mad over him.”

“It’s gross,” Louis adds, groaning.

“S’not true,” Zayn counters, biting his lower lip before it can push out into a pout.

(He’s not some six year old scowling about until he gets a juicebox. He’s not – this whole discussion is juvenile, he swears.)

Louis grins while chugging down most of his own water. He arches an eyebrow at Zayn and, out of reflex, Zayn looks away.

“Can’t be serious, Malik,” Louis chides.

“He’s not,” Niall giggles. “He knows it. Has to.”

“Bullocks,” Zayn puffs out, dragging a hand through his thick hair. “It’s bullshit. We’ve been mates since we were, like, seven.”

“Exactly,” Louis says, narrowing his eyes with a devious smile. “And he’s been arse over tit f’r you since you were eight.”

“Since _forever_ , man,” Niall adds, exaggerating his tone.

Zayn scowls at him just for it. “He has not.”

Louis shrugs, finishing off his water with one swallow. “Let’s be fair, sweet Niall. S’not like Zaynie would even notice. He’s an idiot about these things.”

Niall snorts and Zayn flips them both off this time.

“But it has been forever, bro,” Niall continues, leaning into Louis, fitting around him like a misplaced jigsaw puzzle piece. “The lad won’t ever shut his gob about you and the way he gets when you’re around ― “

Louis scrunches his face into a poor imitation of Liam’s expression and Zayn wants to tell him his eyes aren’t squinty enough or that his smile is all the wrong angle but ―

Well, _shit_.

“That’s it!” Niall crows, slugging an arm around Louis’ shoulders, pulling him in, pecking a messy kiss to his temple. “Absolutely _gone_ over our wee Malik here.”

Zayn groans weakly under his breath, shaking his head. “S’not true, you knobs. He’s fancied other people. He’s been in, like, relationships.”

Louis chokes out a sharp laugh while Niall tosses his empty water bottle at Zayn’s head. He misses – his aim has always been shit. Zayn smiles back elatedly.

“Just fillers,” Niall hums. “Wasting a bit of time until you were single again.”

Zayn wrinkles his eyebrows, definitely pouting like a child this time.

He’s always single. Even when he’s ‘ _dating’_ (he hates that word and its definition and all of the ways it’s used to define a person’s existence) someone, it never feels like he’s fully absorbed in anything.

Just sort of occupying time between sleep and classes with someone other than his mates. Other than Liam, he guesses.

“Fuck off,” he says, removing the heat from his voice. “There was, y’know, um ― “

Zayn flinches. It’s been _months_ and he still can’t say her name. He never could, not willingly, he supposes.

Louis raises an eyebrow at him while Niall tips over with a scratchy, obscenely loud laugh.

“Can’t even say her name!” Niall shrieks between breaths, red-faced and helpless while writhing on his bed.

“I can. I just forgot,” Zayn frowns.

“Oh, you remember,” Louis teases, leaning forward like some cop trying to prod him for information. “C’mon, bro, you _hated_ her.”

“Did not,” Zayn replies a little too quickly, trying to shove a hint of conviction into his voice.

“Danielle,” Louis grins and Zayn twitches. Again. Involuntarily, he swears.

Zayn doesn’t like to think of those days –

(Their first term at university. Some dreadful _‘welcome back’_ mixer with green jello shots and acidic punk pink vodka bombers. Some beautiful girl with smooth skin, big hair and a thick knit scarf sending her friends to corner Liam for a chat up like she was too shy to approach him on her own.

Those soft crinkles around Liam’s eyes, his embarrassed cheeks while he flirted poorly.

They met on a sticky-warm Friday night in late August over beers and ended on an icy Tuesday morning in the middle of January over bland coffees.)

Instead, he exhales deeply and tugs his bag onto his bed to finish packing while Niall stumbles off towards the loo, scratching at his arse and yawning loudly.

“ _So_ ,” Louis smiles while Zayn is stuffing wrinkled ( _hopefully clean_ ) shirts into his bag, “is this trip some sort of mental breakdown? Trying to sort yourself out, then?”

“Are you trying to find the meaning of life?” Niall shouts from down the hall.

Zayn shoves another handful of shirts into his bag. “I’m trying to find two new flatmates,” he grumbles, his lips catching in a cheeky smile that Louis can’t quite see.

“You’ll fail,” Louis scoffs, his own grin just as wide.

“Miserably,” Niall adds, shuffling back in to flop right down next to Louis.

He’s halfway through rolling a spliff ― his favorite morning activity besides pummeling through leftover Chinese takeaway or having a noisy wank while Zayn is in the shower ― with a jagged smile, twiddling his toes happily.

“Dunno, I just,” Zayn pauses, his teeth instinctively gnawing at his lower lip. He lowers his eyes, watching his hands turn a shirt between them over and over. He drops it carelessly on the bed, fisting a hand through his hair.

“Your dad?” Louis offers, his voice lowered.

His bottom lip feels sore from the pressure of his teeth. The span of sunlight, soft and creamy, sprawls all across the room until it looks lit like a candle underneath glass.

“He’s got big dreams for me,” Zayn shrugs. He shoves a shredded pair of skinnies into his bag, tugging back his duvet to find his favorite jumper hiding beneath. “Brags about his son being this brilliant artist to all me family. Top lad and stuff. Thinks ‘m gonna be _huge_ after school.”

“Yeah,” Niall breathes, the spliff dangling loosely from between his lips. “Kinda gets in ya head, eh?”

Zayn gives a sharp nod, keeping his eyes lowered. He steals one of Niall’s shirts, shoving it down in his bag.

(he’ll never wear it but he likes Niall’s scent ― mountain fresh soap and cheap body spray, the leftover smell of woodsy weed ― because it’s a lot like home now)

“Guess I’m just trying to find myself,” he says, blinking up at the scratch of light that passes over Niall and Louis.

“Deep,” Louis replies, sounding half-mocking, half-serious.

Zayn snorts and flips him off, watching Niall finally light his spliff after three rookie attempts. He keeps his hand cupped over the flame, puffing liberally until the cherry catches. It crackles like the first splash of milk over cereal and Niall immediately hacks the smoke back out.

( _a true amateur_ , Zayn thinks)

“Finding y’self,” Niall chokes, pinching at the tip of the joint to offer it to Zayn, “with Leeymo.”

Zayn waves him off immediately, smirking. “Need a clear head, bro. Deep thoughts.”

And fuck ― suddenly he’s become the poster child for a typical art student or sommat.

He’s pathetic and quite mental, thanks Doniya.

Zayn half-turns on his heels, knocking all of his thoughts down because the last thing he needs is to be pensive and brooding on a two hour railway trip to Paris. His lips twitch up, on instinct, at Louis and Niall before he says, “You two gonna knock around all summer? Shag out your boredom?”

There’s a moment where Niall and Louis tense up before they laugh, sharing matching filthy smiles.

“Probably,” Louis sighs, smoothing an arm around Niall’s bare shoulders.

“Oi, long as this one doesn’t spend the whole summer sulking over that feck Styles,” Niall pouts, his voice gone raspy from the thick smoke.

Zayn smiles mockingly at Louis, lifting his eyebrows. Predictably, Louis scowls back at him and shoves a hard elbow into Niall’s ribs.

“Seeing him in Venice?” Niall wonders around a mouthful of smoke.

“Rome,” Zayn corrects, shrugging.

“Shut it,” Louis sulks, pulling his arm from around Niall. “I don’t want to know a thing about that twit.”

Niall coughs out an achy laugh while Zayn arches a quick eyebrow at Louis. “So, over last summer, then?” he asks, his voice more than teasing.

“Completely,” Louis bites out, lifting his chin arrogantly to hide his wounds. He presses a messy, wet kiss to Niall’s cheek, wrinkling out a grin.

“Effective,” Zayn snorts.

Niall lifts his shoulders lazily. “Can’t complain ‘bout that, now can I?”

“Best not,” Louis mumbles, knocking their shoulders, a carefree giggle under his breath when Niall sighs pleasantly.

They settle into the quiet for a moment ― something so rarely brilliant for them. They don’t always need words to feel this connection ― just Louis and his humming, Niall and his short drags of heavy smoke, Zayn and his thoughts. This brotherly little odd-shaped triangle they’ve shared for too long now.

Old logs stacked together to create this glowing little campfire of solidarity.

“’lo? Anyone up?”

Zayn’s lips smooth reflexively into a smile at the hum of a honeyed baritone voice down the hall. It’s that same soft, mellow tone he feels like he’s heard for centuries (and more) that picks at the thread around his heart until it’s frayed and he feels so calm.

So relaxed, so _himself_ for a moment.

Niall shoots him this knowing smirk from across the room and Zayn flushes just a little at the insinuation in his glazed over eyes. Louis tosses a quick hand over his mouth to muffle his giggling and ―

(he needs new flatmates and better friends, he swears)

Zayn thinks it’s a bit ironic, on some levels, that he’s not very fond of the morning sun but he’s been fascinated by the way Liam always glows like a beating star anytime he’s around.

He’s earthy brown eyes, always wide and curious except when he’s laughing. His hair is buzzed up into an almost-mohawk, sharper than it was during the spring. Zayn can pick out the laughter lines around his mouth when he smiles and how ruddy his lips always seems to be, like the inside of a watermelon. There’s rough stubble under his jaw, this little indication he’s finally growing up except it contradicts with his boyish walk, his silly faded Superman shirt with the emblem stretched out of shape across his broad chest.

“Not even noon and you’ve managed not to lay about like a slug,” Liam teases, striding across the room straight to Zayn.

Zayn rolls his eyes, making a face when one of Liam’s hands slides into his hair, wrecking what is left of his purposely done bedhair.

“Piss off, Li,” he groans, reflexively leaning into the touch.

Liam grins, his cheeks habitually making his eyes bunch. Still such a teenager, scratchy stubble or not.

His fingers surf through Zayn’s hair so easily, catching on the tangles until Zayn whines and pouts, Liam’s laughter afterwards is one of Zayn’s favorite things about the morning.

It’s strange and he doesn’t know why, decides against thinking about it when Louis says, “Don’t mind the twat. Think he’s a bit ill.”

“Poorly,” Niall adds, his twisted smile mischievous in ways Zayn thought only Louis was capable of.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Louis smirks. “Sick, this one. _Lovesick_ – “

Zayn pulls away from Liam long enough to toss a pair of dirty Topman pants at Louis’ face.

Niall wheezes out a laugh, thumping at his chest to settle the smoke while Louis flicks away the offending briefs.

“Lovesick,” Niall repeats with a chuckle, taking a deep drag of what’s left of his spliff. “Probably write all about it in his diary later.”

Louis wriggles his eyebrows at Niall, taunting, “Just a bunch of _‘Dear Diary, today, he finally smiled at me_ ― ”

“S’not a _diary_ , you dicks,” Zayn chews out.

From a corner of his eye, he can see Liam smiling, soft like a lazy sun minutes from setting.

“Leave him be, you dicks,” Liam says, sounding a bit too fond to be angry. “It’s too early for him.”

Louis and Niall shrug simultaneously and Zayn thinks they’re the worst. Absolute bastards. The worst type of friends.

“Probably just need your toast and tea, eh?” Liam offers while his thumb draws idle shapes over Zayn’s temple.

And that’s it. He feels something _easy_ pulse through his chest. It’s like Liam always seems to know ― how Zayn craves tea in the mornings or how he likes to listen to Drake while he’s studying or the way he can’t sleep at night if the sheets are too cold.

 _Liam knows_.

He just ― Liam knows Zayn without even trying anymore, truthfully.

A pathetic whine escapes his mouth and he regrets it instantly, Niall and Louis cackling in the background. Assholes.

“Right, then,” Liam says, his smile tilting high and crooked. “Still keep your mum’s favorite brand of earl grey in the cupboard next to your mug?”

Zayn’s face scrunches a little and he can’t hide the embarrassment when he gives a small nod.

“Could make you a quick cuppa before the taxi?” Liam proposes.

Sharp teeth tug over Zayn’s lower lip before he gives a casual shrug. He wants it, definitely, but he’s not going to adamantly confess it. Not with Louis and Niall whispering a few yards away.

Liam breathes a laugh up against Zayn’s cheek, nodding. He gives Zayn’s bum a swift swat, moving away. “I’m on it, mate. Shower. Now. You stink.”

His laugh, like the wake of spring after a long winter, echoes down the hall as he shuffles about to the kitchen. Zayn scrubs a hand through his fucked hair, wincing at the way he misses how Liam does it, before he narrows spiteful eyes towards Louis and Niall.

Of course they’re watching him. It’s what horrible best mates do.

“Absolutely gone over you, man,” Louis teases, keeping his tone low.

“Smitten,” Niall exhales, stubbing out the finger-pinch of leftover joint.

Zayn flips them two fingers, wrinkling his face when they fall into each other laughing. He huffs, shoving his journal and a few art supplies into his bag.

“I’ll tell Haz you said hello,” he tosses out in retaliation, grinning when Louis yelps.

“You tell that arsehole that he can choke on me cock and ― “

“Zaynie,” Liam calls from the kitchen. “Don’t forget to pack your sketchbooks. And a jumper, mate. Might get chilly or sommat.”

Zayn snorts, shaking his head, fingers already caught in another t-shirt because he knows Liam would disapprove. Liam, who is always responsible about things like this. Quite sensible. Always tripping through life with an itinerary and a plan. Fucking boy scout with a pocketknife and setting up tents in five seconds flat. Starting campfires with two soggy twigs.

The kind of mate Zayn always wants around. _Just because_ , alright?

“Listen to Daddy,” Louis coos, his temple knocked against Niall’s shoulder. “Don’t forget to pack loads of rubbers also, mate. Fifty quid says you’re bangin’ him by Milan, bro.”

Niall topples over laughing, taking Louis with him, and Zayn can hear Liam humming something by Oasis from the kitchen just over the noise of his idiot mates.

He thinks he’ll type up the ad for _two quiet, boring, celibate_ _flatmates_ on the train.

 

//

 

The train platform is a steady _shove-and-go_ of people, a riptide of blurred faces headed home or to their next destination. It’s late into the morning and not as crowded ( _thankfully_ ) as Zayn expects. Just a nudging wave of people swaying through the area, listening to the crackled static of the overhead speakers announcing another departure or arrival.

Most of the London students are gathered in a thick pack in a corner, fenced in by their luggage. Zayn doesn’t know many of them, a few here and there from some art classes but –

It doesn’t matter. He’s not into their social scene.

He prefers a comfy position by the railing, watching the tracks, blinking at all of the Eurostars as they depart. Listening to Liam hum tune after tune softly next to him, biting over his smile when he recognizes that Wiz Khalifa song they’re both fond of.

Just him and Liam ― watching the world fizz out in a blur.

Zayn tucks a cigarette behind his ear, thumbing out a final text to his mum before sneaking a quick look at Liam.

He looks dopey and giddy like a child on Christmas morning. Lit up like northern stars. Zayn can see all of the energy in the way Liam twitches. Neon adrenaline molecules buzzing under his skin, all the way down to his anxious fingertips as they fiddle with his vintage Nikon camera. His mouth keeps flinching into this toothy grin and he’s been bouncing on the balls of his feet every few seconds as another train pulls into rest.

Zayn exhales, biting over his lower lip, watching Liam adjust the lens for the _sixth time_ –

He totes them everywhere ― his cameras. Since they were kids with roughed up knees and toothless smiles. Snapping shots of frogs and street signs and _Zayn_ (when Liam thinks he isn’t looking but he always is, secretly), most of the photos coming out of unfocused and fairly wicked, actually.

Liam calls it a _hobby_ but Zayn knows it’s so much more. It calms Liam a bit ― the same way the quiet and nicotine and well, Liam’s fingers calm Zayn.

He hides them when all their classmates give him shit about it but, like a clock ticking out of rhythm, every August, his parents buy another camera for his birthday. An old Canon and one of those instant Polaroid ones, a mint Flexaret that still winds up perfectly. Another toy for Liam to try out for months and months with this daft smile when he gets the perfect shot.

Another static-y announcement over the speakers, just a white noise on the platform. Another train. Another long exhale from Zayn when it isn’t theirs.

“Is it too early for a Harry Potter joke?” Liam asks, already laughing.

Zayn smiles, staring down at a pair of empty tracks now.

“So m’gonna be stuck with you and your dreadful banter for the next month?”

“Well,” Liam drags, lips quirked unnecessarily high, “there’ll be a bunch of other students, y’know. Some from France and a bunch from America too. Germany?”

“Think so,” Zayn says, half-interested in it all. “But you’ll be there, too. How’m I gonna survive?”

Liam elbows him, still half-giggling. “Oi, don’t be rude, then.”

Zayn shrugs, plucking the cigarette from behind his ear. His lips grip it loosely while he pats his pockets for his lighter. He sniffs, soaking in the first drag, raising his eyebrows at Liam’s grin when he realizes Liam’s staring.

“Hmm?”

“It’s gonna be so sick, man,” Liam breathes, shuffling in to lean over the rails with Zayn. “Barcelona and then Paris. Greece.”

“Italy,” Zayn adds, lifting his shoulders for another thoughtless shrug.

“Weekend in Amsterdam,” Liam grins.

“Don’t forget Chamonix,” Zayn points out, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

Liam goes a soft pink, nodding. “Always forget how t’ pronounce that one.”

Zayn laughs out a mouthful of smoke, wiggling his eyebrows. “It’s in France, remember? You looked it up on Google.”

From under his eyelashes, Liam looks up, his cheeks freckled with blush and his smile too wide.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “All the cities, Z. It’s gonna be mental.”

“Bloody crazy,” Zayn says, under his next exhale, carefully elbowing Liam. “You ready?”

Liam gives a long sigh, shrugging. “Long as you’re around, I reckon.”

Zayn hums a response, tipping his head back to blow the smoke away from Liam. He blinks at the sharp strobe of sunlight high in the clouds and the familiar click of Liam’s camera catches his attention. He cocks his head while Liam lowers his camera, looking sheepish.

“What d’ya do with all of them?” Zayn wonders, taking another drag. “I mean, I’ve seen those collages you make of silly stuff ― “

Liam pouts instantly, knocking a fist to Zayn’s shoulder.

“ ― but what about the ones of me?”

Zayn swears it’s the reflective sun blinding him again because Liam’s skin flushes an awful pink like those candy hearts he hated getting every Valentine’s in school. He palms the nape of his neck, scuffing a shoe on the pavement, shrugging defenselessly at Zayn.

“Dunno. Keep ‘em?” Liam offers, still looking away. “Toss a few in the bin. Y’know, you’re not that amazing to look at or anything.”

The coy softness of his tone drags a rough chuckle from Zayn’s chest and he knocks a pathetic punch to Liam’s shoulder in retaliation.

“Fucking cheekbones,” Liam teases, under his breath, reaching out to curl a few fingers under Zayn’s chin, brushing over sharp bristly scruff ―

It’s something they’ve done since those first few bits of stubble came in when they were fifteen. Just a tease of fingers under the chin, for the sensation and the stupid giggle it creates in the other.

“Shut it,” Zayn huffs, lips already fixed into a grin.

Liam gives a playful shrug, crinkling creases forming around his eyes when he laughs.

“D’ya really, like, keep them?” Zayn wonders, keeping his tone lowered even though no one’s watching them.

Just two dumb lads waiting for the next Eurostar ― or the Hogwarts Express, whichever comes first.

Liam flits his eyes away again but his cheeks bruise a sunburn pink. He gives another nonchalant shrug before he asks, “Did you remember to bring your headphones, man? Y’know it’s hard for you to sleep in strange places.”

Zayn furrows his brow, flicking away the last of his cigarette. Liam stares resolutely at the empty tracks, half-tense but mostly just blank. Zayn nudges in closer, their shoulders touching, creating this little bonfire under their clothes and, just like that, it’s forgotten.

He doesn’t trouble Liam over the photos or his silence or any of it.

They talk _Dawn of Justice_ and the new Bond trailer, smiling goofily. Zayn sneaks a hand into the thicker hair at the crown of Liam’s head to calm all of his nervous energy ― a kid bouncing off the walls with this uncontainable anxiousness.

But he settles under Zayn’s touch and they whisper to each other like they’ve always done between classes, away from all the other students, chatting shit while their eyes chase the sun.

All of it tricks a tiny smile over Zayn’s lips, one he bites at for a few minutes before their train finally arrives.

 

//

 

It takes Zayn a moment to settle into the plushness of his seat on the train, his fingers already itching for a cigarette even if they’ve just pulled out of the station. It just feels uncomfortably _full_ in the train, all the other students stuffed into the seats in front and behind him.

Liam is sat across from him, fidgeting in his chair, shuffling through his backpack. There’s a table between them and Liam happily drops a stack of comic books on it as he city drops out of view.

“What’re those for?” Zayn asks, flinching an eyebrow up at Liam.

Across the aisle, two girls with bright green eyes and Oxford jumpers giggle haphazardly at Liam.

Zayn slouches a little, dragging a hand down his face.

“It’s two hours to Paris,” Liam sighs, nudging Zayn’s ankle with the inside of his foot. “And another six hours to Barcelona. Reckon we could keep busy.” He waves around a copy of Iron Man and then, when Zayn wrinkles his nose a bit, a Green Lantern graphic novel. “Brought these for you.”

Zayn groans into his palm but his hand is hiding a soft, crooked smile behind it.

Liam is just sort of ― well, he’s not sure. He’s never been sure.

Perfect? Annoyingly adorable? He’s _something_ and Zayn’s quite fine with that.

He toes off his boots, sliding further down his seat to kick his feet up into Liam’s lap.

“Oi, Li, just wanna kip for a bit, alright?” he breathes, heavy eyes already beginning to blink closed.

Liam frowns down into his lap, pushing around the comics until he finds one he likes.

It’s pathetic (Zayn knows it, he does) but that little tug of Liam’s bottom lip encourages Zayn to nudge a foot to Liam’s stomach.

“Save me _the Blackest Night_ , yeah? S’my favorite,” he mumbles, his mouth sliding into a grateful little smile when Liam nods happily. “And wake me in Paris, eh?”

Liam doesn’t reply, settling the comic on top of Zayn’s feet. He hums gleefully under the thrum of the train dragging on the tracks and all of the other students chatting around them. It’s incredibly soothing ― the mellowness of _‘this time baby I’ll be bulletproof’_ and Liam’s voice and the way he sneaks his fingers under the cuff of Zayn’s jeans to rub over his bare ankle.

The world starts to move into slow, fuzzy fits of images and all he can hear is Liam’s cheerful voice lulling him to somewhere else.

“I think it’d be quite interested if we, like, tried a different food in every city, y’know?” Liam suggests, his voice starting to turn into white noise in Zayn’s ears. “All the local cuisines, right? It’d be proper cool and stuff.”

Even halfway between dreams and the hum of the train, Zayn’s lips twitch up into a smile.

“No, Liam, it would not.”

“But we should definitely try it. C’mon now, you’ve got to – “

All of Liam’s words turn into this dizzy melody in Zayn’s head but he keeps his eyes shut and tunes his ears to Liam’s voice.

“Liam,” he yawns, drifting off like a plank of wood at sea, “you’re an idiot.”

 

//

 

They’re somewhere on the French countryside, speeding past villages in the valley, the sky a tinted lavender in the evening.

Zayn carefully watches Liam as he stares out the window, blinking rapidly at the rush of trees and smudges of green. He sniffs, licking at his lips, barely holding in a snort.

“What?” Liam asks, looking nervous, on edge when he flits his eyes over Zayn.

He gives Liam a casual shrug, his mouth stretching into a playful smile.

“Dunno,” he says, his voice cracked from the second kip he took after lunch in Paris. “You’re a bit excited, man. All jumpy.”

“S’that bad?”

“Nope,” Zayn replies, slouching in his seat. He can see all of those neon wires under Liam’s skin starting to shift again, colliding like explosive atoms.

“You sure?”

Zayn lifts one shoulder like it doesn’t matter. “It’s you.”

Liam gives a slow nod, grinning goofily, freckles of pink starting to blemish his skin.

“Yeah, like. I feel _loaded_ , man. A whole month of traveling and chillin’ with you, like ― “

Zayn lifts an eyebrow at him and Liam exhales heavily.

He drains half a water bottle passed out by one of the attendants, liquid slipping messily down his chin, traveling like rain over the tendons in Liam’s neck. He’s an adolescent, Zayn swears, and it’s oddly fond, this heat in Zayn’s chest.

This calm he gets just watching Liam trip over his words.

He knows what Liam needs, smirking. “Should be cool, right? Just us wrecking Europe, eh?” Zayn offers.

(It feels like that’s all Liam requires to settle back into his skin and Zayn’s never been able to figure out how he does it but ― )

Liam’s massive grin is the only indication Zayn craves, honestly.

“Like Batman and Robin or sommat,” Liam mumbles, laughing gently.

Zayn echoes the noise with a hiccupping giggle. “Yeah, man. Should be pretty sick.”

The steady whirr of the train beats neatly into their silence. Some of the other students are yawning, stretching over their seats, nodding off as the sky turns darker outside their windows. Weirdly, it’s all a bit satisfying to him. It makes him feel comfortable without all of the talking and movement about the train.

Zayn feels the tentative nudge of Liam’s foot over his ankle before he blinks away from the endless view of France beyond his window.

“You wanted to see the Dalí museum, didn’t you?” he asks. He looks knackered and his voice is thick with grit but Liam waits patiently for Zayn to speak.

Zayn tries so fucking hard not to but he lights up like a lone star hovering in orbit. He laughs at himself, rubbing a hand down his face, trying to hide the little curve of his smile from Liam.

“Geek,” Liam teases, knocking his foot gently over Zayn’s ankle.

“Shut it,” Zayn smiles back, shy and abashed.

“Look at you,” Liam says, his tongue pressed to his teeth when he smirks crookedly. “Getting a proper hard-on over art, yeah?”

Zayn makes an appalled face for a moment. “S’not like I’ve got anything else to get me willy stiff lately.”

His mocking laugh burns up his chest and he nearly misses the way Liam turns a cherry-red across from him. They both look away, fully embarrassed, chuckling beneath their breaths.

“It’s gonna be great,” Liam says, like a repeated mantra.

Zayn shoots him a cheeky grin, nodding. He pushes a socked foot over Liam’s ankle, lowering his chin to hide most of his grin while Liam falls back into that staring contest he had with his reflection in the window earlier.

“Me and you,” he mumbles.

“Me and you,” Zayn repeats, softer, smiling down at his hands.

Honestly, he doesn’t know where else to look without feeling overwhelmed.

 

//

 

**Barcelona ― 07:46 AM**

_‘Mornings are awful. I miss my bed. I miss the smell of London. Liam sings so loud in the shower! The same tune every day too… that Chris Brown one. I like it. In January it was John Legend. Last year it was Drake. Usher. LMFAO and Kanye. Caught him singing Katy Perry but he doesn’t like me to tell people. Idiot._

_He has a nice voice._

_I miss my bed. Mornings suck!_

_Hello Barcelona!’_

 

//

 

Zayn keeps yawning from a small table at a nice café sat in the center of the city. One of those massive umbrellas branching out over the table keeps the sun out of his eyes. He brushes fingers through his soft hair, barely having the energy to do more than tug a beanie over it this morning.

The afternoon is one of those sticky-warm days that he’s rather fond of. The sweet flavor of summer. He stretches until his joints crack like snapping bubblegum, his muscles still adjusting to _space, space, space_ after being isolated to a train for too many hours yesterday. His loose vest catches the tepid breeze in all of the right places along his chest and he tips his head back to peek at the sun.

A butterscotch ring high in a clean blue sky.

He wants to paint it but he’s too lazy. Too out of sorts. Too ―

“Knackered still?” Liam asks, dropping a mug of coffee and a plate full of tapas in front of Zayn.

The scent from the cup is spicy, exotic and bright. It tugs at the bits of energy under Zayn’s skin trying to come alive.

He gives Liam a one-shouldered shrug even though there’s dark marks under his eyes and his eyelashes keep blinking back those wet tears of exhaustion. Instead, he grabs the cup, taking a long sip before frowning at the plate.

“Try ‘em,” Liam insists, grinning goofily.

Zayn rolls his eyes, pushing the plate towards Liam. “Determined?”

Liam exhales a short laugh, nodding. “It’ll be ace, man. Trying out all the cultural foods. The man inside said these are all his favorites.”

Sharp teeth bite along Zayn’s bottom lip as he examines the plate with narrowed eyes.

“Can’t, Li. They might have – “

“No pig,” Liam beams, nudging the plate back towards Zayn. “I checked. No pork. S’good stuff, babe, c’mon.”

Zayn snorts and he knows Liam is anything but stubborn. He’s resilient. He’s always been a bit resolute but in a good way. That one lad in the neighborhood who’s going to climb the highest tree, no matter how many scratches and bloody knees he already has from trying.

A bit like Batman, Zayn thinks with a cheeky smile, hiding it behind his coffee.

“How were classes today?” Liam asks around a cube of cheese.

Zayn shrugs lazily, leaning back. “Cool. Boring. Usual.”

Liam nods along like Zayn’s reciting the script to _Batman Begins_ or something, stealing his coffee, wincing at the bitter flavor. Zayn swallows a laugh, nicking back the mug, teasingly admonishing Liam with a finger.

He loves the prickle of pink that automatically sets into Liam’s cheeks – a field of summer carnations.

“Well excited to go to this wicked museum tomorrow,” he adds, sniffing at an olive before popping it between his lips. It’s sour and salty. “Gonna check out some Picasso stuff too. Should be a brilliant time.”

“Nerd,” Liam teases.

Zayn scoffs in return while Liam situates Zayn’s mug at a corner of the table, edging it into the sunlight, lifting his vintage Polaroid to snap a quick photo. He keeps his tongue caught between his teeth, focusing the lens, his brow horribly wrinkled in concentration.

“Nice.”

Zayn kicks him under the table, giggling at Liam’s soft yelp.

“You’re the geek, Jimmy Olsen,” he exhales.

Liam beams back at him and Zayn honestly can’t help himself. He leans forward, cupping his fingers under Liam’s chin, letting them drag over the bits of afternoon stubble hidden by the shadows.

There’s an imprint of blush high on Liam’s cheeks after his fingers fall away but Zayn ignores it. He’s determined to finish his coffee while the city burns slowly around them.

“There’s this castle all the students in me photography class keep chatting about,” Liam says, his voice low but lit like crackling sparklers dancing in the night.

Zayn hums quietly, lifting his eyebrows.

Liam ducks his head, half-shrugging like he’s laughing or uncertain. It’s amusing. And Zayn can’t look away from it all.

“It’s old. Medieval? Like kings and queens and knights,” Liam continues, his mouth wrapping around every word like he’s repeating all the jargon stuffed into his head.

“Sick,” Zayn smiles. “Gonna get loads of photos, yeah?”

“Loads,” Liam repeats, his smile this broken, lopsided wonder.

It’s hard to replicate but Zayn wants to try. He wants to memorize the way it warms something unexplainable in his chest, maybe sketch it one day. With broken bits of charcoal and his thumb smudging the lines to make it soft.

(Fucking hell that’s horrible and stupidly poetic like all of those Literature kids he never hung around with in sixth form. They thought he was too lyrical and descriptive with his writing.

He thinks they were assholes.)

Those thoughts sink a little and he nudges Liam. Again. Maybe just to have that smile directed at him. He doesn’t know.

“Hey,” Liam says, leaning away. “You’re not, like. Disappointed? Being here without Tommo or Ni, right? I mean ― “

Zayn scrunches his brow, blinking at Liam for a moment. He feels lost. Confused. Liam looks shy, slightly self-conscious and Zayn hasn’t really thought of that. Of being in Spain (or anywhere) with those two idiots back in London because ―

Well, he always prefers Liam around. His best mate. The fucking reluctant hero while he plays sidekick. Or the opposite.

It’s always _easy_ with Liam, without the feeling of having to be entertaining the way he has to be with Niall. Or playing wingman for Louis. Or trying not to throttle someone for snoring too loud or for leaving toothpaste all over the mirror.

Louis and Niall are like those annoying brothers, always nicking your stuff (or vice versa), while Liam is ―

Zayn swallows the last of his coffee and kicks his thoughts aside. They’re stupid. He’s mental.

( _Checkmate_ , Doniya, thanks.)

“Not at all,” he finally replies, reaching under the table for Liam’s bag. He steals his snapback, an all-black Chicago Bulls one that he tugs over his messy hair, backwards just to make Liam giggle.

“S’gonna be sick, man. You and me, alright?” he asks, tapping his foot over Liam’s under the table. “Big times, yeah?”

Liam smiles unevenly, nodding. Even out of the sun, under the large umbrella, Liam looks bright. Warm. A misshapen star.

(Those assholes were right – Zayn’s definitely too poetic to be considered serious about anything.)

 

//

 

**Barcelona ― 15:39 PM**

_‘Met a girl today. Catalina. Nice eyes. Like Christmas trees. Soooo green!_

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind” ― _Shakespeare_

_Liam’s eyes remind me of the earth. Dirt and mud, sometimes. Or autumn. Yeah, the leaves. October. Those coffees Waliyha likes. Starbucks?_

_I like Catalina’s eyes but Liam has sickkkk eyes. He’s cool too. Funny. My man Liam Payne!_

_Barcelona is sick ― can’t wait for Paris.’_

 

//

 

Zayn likes the sand between his toes.

The gritty texture and the soft bits from the wash of foamy ocean water. It’s soothing.

He can’t swim (not even that beginner’s paddle that even toddlers get) but the beach pacifies him.

(Or the way Liam habitually looks endlessly ecstatic near the surf or the coastline or underneath the sun)

It’s just before sunset and the coarse sand has turned cooler, crumbling between his toes as they move up the shore. The sun is a slow-motion three-pointer now, dunking into the flat plane of calm waters, still spitting out orange rays that pink the sky. It’s all a bit breathtaking. He can’t stop enjoying the view except ―

The snap and wind of an old camera draws his attention.

They’re barefoot, kicking through clumps of sand, watching young tourists run towards the surf, backing down when a wave tumbles in. Liam keeps grabbing shots of the sun, the shallow waves barely giving off a rumble, walking clumsily backwards for a few shots created by the trail of their footprints.

Predictably, he tries to sneak a few of Zayn but Zayn’s always prepared ― making faces, sticking his tongue out, flipping a middle finger to the lens.

“Harsh,” Liam pouts, winding up the camera.

Zayn gives a careless shrug, waving him off. He tugs a Marlboro from a squashed up pack, tucking it between his lips, using a matchbook from the hotel to light up.

He exhales into the marshmallow and flamingo sky, smirking.

Out here, with the screech of birds and the soft sand, everything smells like metal and (underneath all of that) mandarins. A hint of peach, maybe? He’s not sure.

From here, they can see a hazy view of Olympic Harbour and the colors of the city. Mosaics and tropical lines.

Zayn feels so _fond_ of the brilliance behind it all.

“And here we have Zayn Malik,” Liam teases, grabbing a shot of Zayn in profile, another of him smiling like _‘caught me you fucker’_ before he bats the camera away, “being _broody_ just like a proper model.”

“You’re a proper dick,” Zayn laughs, taking another drag.

“Pout for us, love,” Liam mocks, lifting his camera again.

“Fuck off,” Zayn grins, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip while flicking ash off his ciggy. “M’like Tony Stark. Billionaire.” He gives his chin a stiff lift, pouting ridiculously for the lens.

“With a heart of iron,” Liam mocks, stepping on the tips of his toes to ruffle Zayn’s hair. “Horrible.”

Zayn jerks away, giggling. His hair is a wreck from the heat but there’s enough product to keep it in a quiff, a taller version of Liam’s mock mohawk.

There’s a massive pair of headphones hanging from around Liam’s neck, his way of keeping amused when Zayn refused to run about into the water with him. Instead, he hung back, spread out in the sand next to Zayn, bobbing his head to the music, taking awkward shots of his feet in the sand.

Now, Zayn can hear the strain of unfamiliar tunes buzzing from the tinny speakers. Like a soundtrack. This thumping _‘I put my hand on your heartbeat like I’ve been there before it doesn’t matter what my friend says cause I’ve been there before’_ that knocks about noisily, Liam marching to the rhythm like he can’t help himself.

(he probably _can’t_ and that makes Zayn want to kiss his temple – or knock him in the head)

It’s a distraction, Zayn will realize later, because Liam swiftly grabs Zayn’s hand and drags him up the beach, near the wilting surf.

“Not too close, Li,” he whines, nearly falling over to escape the bubbling water when it smacks around his feet.

An echoing laughter, chest-deep, floods off Liam’s lips. “I know, you dolt.”

He gives Zayn’s hand a small squeeze, smiling out at the gentle waves. Zayn tucks his chin, pouting, but he readjusts their hands until their fingers are tangled properly. A sure grip like the ones they had when they were kids ― running through the trees or playing hide-and-seek in the dark.

(always going to Liam’s predictably favorite spot: behind an old shed in Liam’s backyard, ducking down, giggling to each other with their foreheads pressed together)

(no one ever found them and they would whisper about Spider-Man until dusk and roaring crickets forced them back inside)

“You know I’d save you, though. If somethin’ happened or whatever,” Liam says, talking to the waves rather than looking at Zayn.

He’s sheepish when he does turn, hiding his expression in the final blurts of sunlight. “I’d, like, save you,” he adds, grinning, deep crinkles around his eyes.

“Turning into Superman, eh?” Zayn mocks.

Liam feigns a wounded look before kicking water up at Zayn’s knees. Zayn yelps, tugging and twisting, but ―

He never goes too far. He keeps in time with Liam’s walking, still hand-in-hand, the red sun a background and _‘I hit my head on the concrete like I’ve been there before’_ is their theme music.

A strong grip, wiggling fingers searching for circulation all the way to the markets closer to the city. Like two lads stripped of their alter-egos. Caped crusaders in a quiet city.

And, yeah, Zayn like this. A new world to conquer. A continent of Gotham Cities.

Thirty days with his best mate by his side.

 

//

 

**Barcelona ― 22:29 PM**

“It seems all the autumn leaves are falling. I feel like you’re the only reason for it. All the things you do.” _― Chris Brown_

 

//

 

They skip out on dinner at the hotel on a Friday night and sneak all the way off to the Montjuïc neighborhood.

“It’s over there,” Liam says, gleefully, his Nikon hanging loose from his neck as they ease through the gathering crowd.

He pauses briefly, angling back (with Zayn’s hand steadying him, warm and insistent at the small of Liam’s back) to grab a picture of four stone columns they’ve heard about, smiling goofily.

Liam looks like a proper reporter, waiting for his next scoop.

A bit like Jimmy Olsen, Zayn thinks, amused.

“C’mon or we won’t get a good spot,” Liam huffs and, even under a dark sky, Zayn can spot the speckles of blush all over Liam’s round cheeks.

He follows ( _reluctantly_ but with a hint of a grin) Liam through the crowd, a zigzag pattern like a labyrinth, until they’re close enough to get a proper view.

Until they’re leaning over a rail and waiting for the Magic Fountain situated at the head of the neighborhood to start up its nightly performance.

It’s massive (like the crowd expanding around them) and enticing even before the show begins.

“Built in 1929,” Liam says, his voice casually soft but still brimmed with eagerness. “Can’ya imagine?”

Zayn snorts, shaking his head. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear ( _for emergencies_ , he tells himself) but his skin isn’t crawling for it like it always is at this hour.

No, he feels satiated. Right next to Liam, their hips touching, elbows knocked together, shoulders brushing every other breath.

Connected like intricate wires and Zayn refuses to cut the red wire. Or the blue one. Whichever one will stop the explosion because ―

He likes this. He _loves_ this ― feeling stronger and brighter next to Liam.

It’s a heavy thought and, thankfully, he escapes all the scum filling up his head when the lights come on and the jets of water start to move.

Everything turns smudged yellow and blue and orange like graffiti over the water. An intricate dance of foamy water, spurts and sprays lifting up to the sky. Classical music leading the dance as water rises and swirls from all angles.

“Wicked,” Liam says, chewing his bottom lip, the word a little more awed than Zayn expects.

He laughs like a low growl, knocking his shoulder to Liam’s.

“Wicked, man,” he agrees, his tongue going numb.

(He’s not sure if it’s the fountain or maybe the lights or, possibly, just Liam ― just all of it.)

His fingers twitch for the cigarette but he stops himself. He calms the murmur in his lungs, stealing glances at Liam as he snaps off a few photos of the dancing fountain.

“Any of ‘em good?” he wonders. His lungs are shaking but not for nicotine ― it’s something else.

Bloody hell.

Liam gives a mild shrug, lowering his camera, biting down on his grin when a piece from _the Lord of the Rings_ filters into the music.

“Geek,” Zayn giggles, butting his chin to the round of Liam’s shoulder. “You’re embarrassing me. Getting a stiffy over Aragorn.”

Liam ducks his head some, scrunching his nose. “Oi, you’re the one who got off to Legolas.”

Zayn tips his head back with a thick laugh and the world settles into that swirl of color he usually sees when he’s high off a good spliff or when he’s out on the piss with Louis. Dizzy, psychedelic spectrums and ―

He exhales heavily, looking away to cover his smile from Liam’s view.

“Tommo and Ni would kill to come here. See the Barcelona club practice. Get a proper look at the Camp Nou,” Liam says, blinking away the mist from the fountain.

Tiny droplets stick to his eyelashes and Zayn thinks to smear them away but he doesn’t.

(and he feels _daft_ and a little out of control for a moment)

Instead, he playfully knocks their shoulders together, jerking his head towards the fountain. He takes in a deep breath of the night like it’s filling the spaces in his lungs with the things that are missing.

Casually, he slides an arm around Liam’s shoulders, squeezing until he feels Liam relax.

“Shut up, mate,” he grins, watching the waters turn frost blue, “we’re here to chill.”

It feels like _finally_ when Liam exhales, going loose under the weight of Zayn’s arm. His shaky hands stop fiddling with his camera. An arm comes round, strong and encouraging, pulling Zayn in, fingers tight on Zayn’s waist.

Liam hums, a crooked smile on his lips before he snuggles his head into the crook of Zayn’s neck.

“Alright,” he mumbles, blinking at all of the colors.

The tightness in Zayn’s chest (from the thoughts, the fucking _uncertainty_ climbing up his belly) shatters like a solar flare then. His lips brush over Liam’s snapback and he doesn’t need a cigarette.

Not right now, at least.

They watch the rest of the show like this ― with a giant crowd around them aweing at the sight and their bodies half-curled around each other.

There’s this grand silence that Zayn enjoys, except for the harmony of the music, the splash of the water, and their loud, heroic hearts beating synchronized.

 

//

 

Zayn can’t sleep.

The train is just a hush, a hollow tunnel of concentrated noise that doesn’t keep him up. It’s not the last flicker of sun outside, the shade half-drawn to keep the light regulated. There’s exhaustion in his bones (he’s always drowsy, always seconds from falling asleep anywhere) but he can’t lull himself toward a dream.

Instead, he doodles on a sketchpad, watching the blur of countryside pass the window. Just a smear of pear and mint from the trees as Barcelona becomes a fond memory and they travel back to France.

He feels a little bit like an insomniac or a zombie, curled around himself in a comfy chair. He’s working out a sketch of Deadpool (for no reason at all) and sparing glances at Liam from the corner of his eye.

Liam is toying with one of his cameras, readjusting the focus, humming to himself, like always.

The corner of Zayn’s mouth tremors almost high enough to be a smile at the sight.

At his stupid best mate who’s a bit nerdy. Like himself.

Whose strong hands move like he’s molding clay or creating art from metal and Zayn shouldn’t be thinking like that.

He shouldn’t be thinking at all.

“You should have a lie-in before Paris,” Liam suggests, leaning back, his finger poking at a space between Zayn’s ribs.

Zayn jolts, scrunching his nose.

“Y’know how moody y’can get without your sleep,” Liam smiles, wriggling his eyebrows.

“M’not,” Zayn pouts like a right six year old told to go to bed too early. “Gonna be fine,” he adds, his body giving him away when he yawns softly into a loose fist. Point unproven. Brilliant.

Liam laughs, keeping the noise under his breath, ducking his head. His fingers (out of habit) card through Zayn’s hair, brushing along his scalp in a pattern Zayn has memorized for ages now.

(he doesn’t know _why_ but it feels like instinct – leaning into the touch until Liam finds the right pressure and something numbing runs down Zayn’s spine)

“Paris is gonna be cool, yeah?” Zayn says, fixing his gaze on his sketch.

“City of love,” Liam replies, too fondly, adding a carefree shrug before looking around like he’s abashed by his own voice.

No one really pays them attention ― a girl peeking over her trashy bodice-ripper novel with raised eyebrows, a few blokes two rows back arguing over Potter versus Malfoy, a professor reviewing text from his laptop. Just curious glances but not enough to warrant the fleck of pink running up Liam’s cheeks.

“Oi, Payno, thinking of shagging off a bit with someone?” Zayn teases, snickering. “Fancying one of the students? One of them American second-years?”

Liam’s eyes are dilated, massive black holes when Zayn looks up. His teeth snag his bottom lip roughly and Zayn tilts his head to admire him. Just for a second.

“No, no, just sayin’ that,” Liam stammers, trying to wheeze a laugh through his uneven breaths. “Having a chat, aren’t we?”

“Sure, Li,” Zayn smirks, poking the top of his pen at Liam’s sternum. “Hope whatever bird or lad you pull is worth it.”

There’s a pause between them ― something heavy and uncomfortable.

(They were sixteen when, under the cloak of a fort made out of Liam’s bedsheets with a copy of Zayn’s favorite comic books shoved between them, they admitted that maybe they were both into lads.

With blush and stupid laughter, they chatted about their first kiss ― fourteen and one of Danny’s stupid basement parties. Teasing each other, playfighting because they didn’t want to bother with all the girls snapping their grape bubblegum and batting their thick eyelashes at anyone who would watch.

Their foreheads knocked together and Zayn whispering, over and over, _‘c’mon then, c’mon’_ and the dry taste of sour candies Liam had been sucking on for hours when their lips brushed roughly. The electric shock of a kiss that lasted seconds but felt like decades.

And it was that easy ― quiet confessions in a shitty fort, falling asleep laughing, feeling something expand in their lungs.)

“He is,” Liam mumbles, turning his eyes back on his camera. He messes about with the shutter for a few minutes, staying quiet.

Zayn scrunches his face, lowering his eyebrows. He cocks his head to watch Liam and ―

(this feels uneasy and weighted)

He curls up against the window and tries to sleep. Maybe he can dream this feeling away and they’ll just be the lads they usually are when he wakes up.

 

//

 

**Paris – 23:08 PM**

_‘Shakespeare said,_ “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

_Why am I thinking of this?_

_Get on with life, because life gets on without you.’_

 

//

 

Zayn is knackered when Liam nudges open the door to their hotel room in Paris. He feels dizzy, drunk even, all of the sleep weighing down his limbs and making his tongue feel dense. Liam sticks in the doorway for a moment, letting Zayn lean against him for balance. Their yawns are nearly synchronized as they look over the room, Zayn’s chin hooked over Liam’s shoulder.

The room smells clean and sterile, like every posh hotel in almost every city. There’s a neat view of the buildings from the parted curtains ― a hundred stars twinkling from the lights of a drowsy city.

“Sick, right?” Liam smiles.

Zayn gives a careless shrug, yawning again. He huffs a breath into the collar of Liam’s shirt, grinning when Liam trembles away.

“You need a bed,” he says, over his shoulder.

Zayn lifts and lowers his eyebrows lazily, rubbing his knuckles over his eyes. He can’t disagree with that but everything is bleary and he feels out of sorts the way you do after a long car ride. His foot nudges his duffle into the room and, for a moment, he watches Liam shuffle around like he’s amazed by it all.

It’s so amusing and there’s a red gem of bliss settling into Zayn’s chest for a moment.

(not enough to wake him up but enough to make him want to dream of Liam’s huge grin each time he finds something new in a different city)

“Gonna be this nerdy the rest of the trip?” he teases, stealing the snapback off Liam’s head to slide onto his own.

“Piss off,” Liam smiles, looking just as sleepy but a little more restless.

(like all of that energy is starting to slide into his cells again ― uncontrollable, like always)

“Whatever,” Zayn says, his lips habitually sliding up at all the crinkles around Liam’s eyes when he grins back.

Zayn waves him off, toeing off his trainers, blindly digging through his duffle for his toiletries before shuffling socked-feet over the soft carpet all the way to the en suite.

“Still a dork,” he adds, softer, the words lifted by a laugh as he starts the tap.

He can’t hear Liam’s response over the hum of the city outside and this constant buzz in his ears from exhaustion. He brushes his teeth, mumbling half a tune he remembers Liam singing on the train

(because Liam is always singing or humming or making noises and Zayn’s always getting a tune stuck in his head for _hours_ afterwards)

while examining himself in the mirror.

There’s rough, dark half-moons under his eyes and his cheeks look a bit pale, his stubble thickening. He feels awful, like that insomnia that chases your bones when you haven’t slept properly. Unconsciously, he grins for a moment (for a heartbeat) at Liam’s snapback sat crookedly on his head and it makes him feel loose.

It heats up a caramel feeling deep in his chest like having all of these little things (Liam’s snapback and one of Liam’s dumb songs in his head) keep him centered with gravity.

He feels ― well, he doesn’t know. He thinks to blame it all on the exhaustion because, otherwise, people would think him quite mad.

(he’s never going to tell Doniya about any of this, he promises)

He blinks at himself, the fuzzy shape of his reflection. His eyes are too heavy to examine it for too long so he spits, rinses out his mouth and exhales a long breath.

He considers logging into his WhatsApp, thumbing out a quick message to Niall and Louis, maybe a quick photo of the lights outside but ―

Zayn just needs a bed and a bright city in the background for a few hours, he’s certain.

It feels like being half in a dream when he shuffles back into the room. The purple sky outside makes everything inside look pale and lilac. He rubs his knuckles softly over his eyelids to clear out some of the haze.

Liam looks so soft and relaxed on his bed, ankles crossed, pillows fluffed behind his head. He’s wearing loose tartan bottoms and some vintage Aquaman shirt that’s too tight (sleeves barely brushing biceps, the hem riding up for a honeyed bit of skin along his stomach) on his torso.

Zayn’s eyes drift over his own bed (still made, near the window, all the corners tucked neatly) before something restless crawls up his skin. He’s too tired to think and his eyes are too heavy to focus, so ―

He exhales a _‘fuck it’_ into the night, tugging off Liam’s snapback to ruffle a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know why he attempts to fix it from fuzzy and soft into something decent but his eyes keep shyly scanning over Liam like he wants his approval, which is ―

 _Bloody fuck_.

He sucks in a sharp breath before stumbling out of his jeans, dragging his feet through the room. He collapses into Liam’s bed instead of his own.

(and he doesn’t think about it for more than two seconds)

His teeth worry his bottom lip for a moment. He expects Liam to whine or complain, shove him off but Liam doesn’t. He giggles like an adolescent, budging up to make space for Zayn.

(it feels like sleepovers and flashlights in the dark to create stars on the walls and falling asleep talking about the X-Men)

“Geek,” Liam mumbles. He curves an arm around Zayn’s shoulders to keep him warm while clicking off the overhead light on the nightstand.

Zayn snorts. “S’you, Li.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re the one going on and on, mate.”

“ _Zayn_ ,” Liam finally whines but his voice, raw and raspy from his own exhaustion, is incapable of hiding that distinct fondness Zayn has become accustom to.

Thick fingers drags into Zayn’s hair, along his scalp, producing tiny goosebumps down Zayn’s back. He hooks a leg over Liam’s thighs and uses his shoulder for a pillow.

The city blinks awake outside but Zayn falls asleep with his nose pressed to Liam’s coffee-stain of a birthmark.

 

//

 

Zayn still hates mornings.

There’s nothing but disdain in his lungs at the onslaught of bursting orange stars over his eyelids when all he wants is a few more hours of sleep.

Just a few. Not much.

He still half-expects to wake up to _‘the tide is high but I’m moving on’_ from Niall’s phone or Louis knocking into his room, still lazy and drunk from a night on the piss in the city.

Instead, the sunlight floods his eyes and, when his vision finally adjusts, he stares at a neatly made bed opposite him with his stuff piled in the middle of it.

 _His bed_. Well, his bed in this beautiful hotel at the center of Paris.

Zayn yawns and stretches, fisting the leftover sleep from his eyes before blinking away the sun. He snuffles into the pillows for a moment, smiling down into cotton at the noise of someone humming.

 _Liam_.

(and he loves that rush of dopamine in his blood that always makes his next breath sharp, bright at the thought of his best mate being around)

“S’too early, you dick,” he says, burying his grin from Liam’s view.

A dry laugh scratches at his chest when a plush pillow thumps his head. He shrugs it away before finally rolling over to have a proper look at Liam.

Liam stands over him, trying to look menacing but Liam’s always been awful at that. Instead, he looks sleep-warm and dopey. Fuzzy eyebrows drawn down into a scowl, his round mouth red like ice lollies and morning stubble hiding beneath his chin.

(and there’s _more_ , like strong muscles outlined by Liam’s shirt and a broad chest and pink cheeks like he hasn’t been awake long, too)

“Asshole,” Liam says, his lips unable to stop a grin from wriggling out.

Zayn exhales another laugh. “Fuck off.”

“Rude,” Liam huffs, flicking at the tip of Zayn’s nose.

It tickles and Zayn half-sneezes at it, batting Liam away. He watches him shuffle about the room for a moment, Liam habitually clumsier when he’s barely awake, knocking into things as he moves.

Zayn manages to sit up a bit in bed, pushing hair off his forehead, feeling a little wrecked from the night before.

(he doesn’t remember much about it, except flopping face-down into the bed, snuffling his nose to Liam’s neck, a warm hand on his spine until he felt ―

well, _at home_ , he supposes)

He yawns again, his muscles finally starting to untangle. Carefully, Liam eases a tray of plain toast and steamy tea into his lap, backing away awkwardly.

“The way you like it,” he shrugs, looking sheepish, a hand cupping the nape of his neck. “Sorted out you’d need it after a rough night, mate.”

Zayn blinks up at Liam and down at the tray, repeat, over and over until he feels dizzy. His lips flinch out a smile that smooths into something genuine after a beat.

Early grey with a dash of honey, a spill of milk. It’s such a lovely scent in the morning ― like growing up in Bradford. Dreaming of being a superhero. Lazy days on the couch, watching Power Rangers, doodling on his mum’s favorite linen napkins.

“Thanks, man,” Zayn says, still smiling.

Liam grins crookedly, giving Zayn a sharp nod. He reaches out, reflexively, curling his fingers under Zayn’s chin and jaw, rubbing at grungy stubble gently.

“S’what mates do, right?” Liam asks, leaning back on his heels.

Zayn nods slowly but he thinks ― well, yeah.

He reckons it’s what best mates do for each other. Exactly.

(he feels a bit manic and sweat pricks at his temples from thinking too hard, his heart beating out a polite _fuck you Zayn you’re awful_ when his throat goes dry staring at Liam)

“Well spotted,” he chokes out, laughing.

Liam smirks, crinkles around his eyes and a lopsided mouth. “Class in a bit,” he mentions.

Zayn hums around his tea. The first sip burns the roof of his mouth and he loves it. The sharp flavor soothing his throat.

Liam’s a little lost when Zayn looks at him. His fingers are absently rubbing at the shape of Zayn’s ankles, staring off at the view of the city from the window.

“Thanks for, like,” Zayn pauses when Liam finally blinks back at him. “For not telling me to sod off last night. And stuff. For, like. Didn’t mean to be so moody.”

Liam snorts. “M’ used to it.”

Zayn nods, biting into the toast. “Right.”

“S’nothing,” Liam adds, tilting his head, grinning.

“If you say so,” Zayn shrugs back.

He doesn’t care, really. He’s just being polite. Honestly, he just ― _fuck_. He doesn’t even know why he’s bothering. Liam _knows_ him. He knows how Zayn gets when he’s knackered and hasn’t had a proper lie-in or a cigarette in hours.

Zayn swallows another mouthful of tea. “Fancy a cuddle before class?”

It’s meant to be a tease (partially) but something wickedly crimson flashes over Liam’s cheeks before he tuts at Zayn, pinching the skin around Zayn’s ankle.

“Already caught up in all of the sappy love shit of Paris, babe?”

Zayn kicks out at him, sighing. Louis is an awful influence on Liam.

“Soppy, sappy boy,” Liam giggles, fleeing from another kick Zayn directs at him.

He sounds intensely happy like a kid in the middle of Disneyworld or sommat. “Need a shower,” he grins, fingers already playing with the hem of his shirt, his back to Zayn.

“Good,” Zayn pouts, sipping his tea. “You stink.”

“Do not,” Liam says, his voice low, his smile pronounced even if Zayn can’t see it. “Quit being a tit.”

“M’gonna murder Tommo when I see him,” Zayn mumbles down into his tea but he keeps his eyes up.

He watches Liam strip off his shirt, the sunlight kicking out just enough to highlight the planes of Liam’s back. The smooth line of his spine, all of the muscles flexing, rolling ripples under Liam’s skin. Strong shoulder blades. Silly indents at the bottom of Liam’s spine.

Bottoms hanging low enough for Zayn to see a flash of slightly curved arse.

Zayn looks away and all of this heat underneath his skin has to be from the tea. Or maybe he’s poorly. Bloody ill from the travelling. Of course.

He hears Liam pad into the en suite. The shower starts up (Liam’s humming too), water pounding at the tiles. His last swallow of tea gets caught somewhere in his throat while his hand, absently, slides down his stomach to give his fattening cock a pitiful squeeze.

His eyes squeeze shut but that makes it worse – slow, swimming images of Liam’s strong shoulders and the soft line of his arse as he walked away.

 _Shit_.

Zayn’s fingertips slip beneath the band of his pants but they barely graze the coarse hairs above his cock before he snatches them away.

He sighs loudly. He just hasn’t had a proper wank in nearly two weeks, that’s all.

It’s all hormones. Nothing else. Absolutely _nothing else_.

A good tug on his dick until he’s breathless, sweaty all over would be a brilliant start to his morning. Just a lazy session with his fingers curled around his throbbing prick. Thinking about that last blowjob he got. Or that one porn he tossed off to a month ago.

Definitely not wanking to the thought of his best mate. Not at all.

 

//

 

**Paris ― 13:22 PM**

_‘Sometimes I like being on me knees. I hate hands in me hair but I fancy getting a lad off like that. Letting him have my mouth. Or when he shags me from behind._

_Feels like I’m still in control when he thinks I’m not._

_Need a cig and a lie-in after, tho._

_Thought about it all morning ― fucking, not a ciggy haha!_

_Or just snogging on a pile of wrinkled sheets. Kissing is nice. Could do it for hours and hours. Its been awhile. Too much to do._

“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.” _― Neruda_

_(Sick line ― new ink after holiday maybe?)_

_I think too much. Liam is waiting for me.’_

 

//

 

They’re sat on a patio at one of those finely polished restaurants at the belly of the city. Paris is lit like a young galaxy, the lights just like suspended fireworks all around. A five hundred piece puzzle of reds and whites and blues hanging above their heads.

It’s a bit magical, he thinks, smiling up at the view.

Zayn likes this lot of Liam’s classmates. A nice bunch, honestly: Andy, who laughs like a lion and has ink all over his skin like a rebel. Jade, who keeps pushing her hair out of her face when she giggles and has round brown eyes like a giant cup of coffee, her skin a raw shade of honey. Zoe, who has cheeks like a model and constantly chews on her cherry bottom lip between conversations.

They’re simple, the way Zayn likes. Reminds him of Ant and Danny. Almost like Niall and Louis but ― a paler version. They’re more chilled, not as vibrant.

(but none of that matters because Zayn likes the way they treat Liam like he’s more than just a punchline to some joke no one’s telling him about)

They’ve nearly gone through a bottle of red wine, passing it back and forth while laughing over nothing at all. Just dumb childhood stories and awful one-offs and bad relationships. There’s small dishes gathered all around the table, their hands bumping and brushing as they sample everything ―

(there’s a small saucer of snails sitting untouched but Liam, with his gleeful smile and pink cheeks, keeps nudging it towards Zayn)

(Zayn pretends it’s not there every single time)

“C’mon,” Liam whines, nicking the last of Zayn’s glass.

It dribbles over his chin because Liam has never been _refined_ (and Zayn loves that, too) and his pink tongue quickly slips out to lick away the remnants. He grins goofily when Zayn makes a face. Zayn shakes his head and swipes a few fingers under Liam’s chin just for this view of him flushing pink.

“I won’t like ‘em,” Zayn shrugs. He’s wearing his glasses tonight and they slide down his nose a bit when he looks at Liam.

“You don’t know that,” Liam argues softly, grinning.

“I do.”

“Shut up,” Liam snorts.

“Not happening.”

“Twat,” Liam huffs but he doesn’t push.

He never does. Zayn’s appreciative of that (and so much more) but he doesn’t mention it.

His fingers just keep vibrating at the feel of Liam’s stubble, outlining the sharp shape of Liam’s jaw.

“I honestly don’t remember much but I think she was a _good_ snog,” Zoe giggles into her empty glass.

“I bet,” Jade sniffs while Andy stares at Zoe with dilated eyes. “Too much wine that night?”

“Too much _vodka_ ,” Zoe cackles.

“Fuck,” Andy growls, grinning. “Could’ve killed to see that one.”

Zoe rolls her eyes, stealing back the wine, refilling her glass. “Hardly worth it. But there was this time at the Leeds Festival ― “

“Fuck,” Andy repeats, leaning in and Liam tips back with a laugh that strums through the city with an echo.

Taxis pass in a slow steady line of evening traffic, the night falling into a steady chill, their dinner gone cold but their faces warm with laughter and wine.

An hour and another bottle of wine later, Liam is leaning back in his chair, an arm resting lazily across the back of Jade’s. He’s clumsily lighting up a ciggy, the flame wavering because of the breeze. The tip finally glows a solid orange and smoke billows from the corners of Liam’s mouth as he tries to smile and not cough through it all.

Something dark and cold settles in Zayn’s chest. It’s an awful feeling but he keeps watching Liam.

He always feels remorseful about this ― Liam smoking. It’s so rare, once in a full moon or sommat, but it makes Zayn feel so wrung out. _Gutted_ , truthfully. Like he’s always been this dreadful influence on Liam. Some bastard of a role model.

A shit superhero who made Liam start smoking when he hated ducking off between classes by himself. Or how Liam likes Green Lantern over the Flash now. He prefers leather jackets over denim in the winter these days.

Zayn feels _guilty_. Like this weight on his shoulders isn’t an anchor. It’s a prison. He’s mucked up his own life enough and, now, he’s gone and fucked Liam’s too.

But under the lights and the way Paris is so gold and blue right now, Liam catches his attention.

With a cigarette dangling from his lips and a cheeky smile, Liam _glows_ across from him. Staring at Zayn. Crinkles at the edges of his eyes and this _‘fuck the world’_ shine in his eyes like ―

He’s smiling at Zayn from across the table like he’s so damn _thankful_ for Zayn. For all of this, honestly.

It’s overwhelming. Devastating. It feels like glitter and silver in Zayn’s chest but he keeps breathing it in.

In the middle of their third bottle, Liam switches seats with Zoe to be, well, closer. Nudged up next to Zayn with a lazy arm tossed around Zayn’s shoulders. A new cigarette that he shares with Zayn, their cold fingers bumping in the dark.

Zayn exhales smoke earnestly while Liam laughs at something Andy prattles on about. He sinks back until the warmth of Liam’s arm edges up the nape of his neck.

He likes it there. He doesn’t know why.

“Didn’t think I’d ever find a bloke fit before but he was nice,” Andy slurs, sleepy eyes drifting around the table. “Wouldn’t shag ‘im though.”

“Course not,” Jade hums.

“S’not your style, right?” Zoe teases.

“Nope,” Andy exhales, leaning back. “Save that for me mate Payno over there.”

He hiccups a laugh and Zayn watches Liam duck his head, abashed with his cheeks a fevered red. Unexpectedly, he wants to kiss the top of Liam’s cheek. Under the crinkles.

Zayn’s certain he must be full-on hammered now.

“Lads and lads. Girls and girls. Shouldn’t matter,” Zoe sighs, lighting up a cigarette.

“It doesn’t,” Andy agrees, his voice dulled of conviction. “Love is love, yeah? And I love you Payno. Blowjobs and all.”

Liam groans softly (and it shouldn’t be so _obscene_ to Zayn’s ears, but, well) before kicking Andy under the table. It knocks over an empty bottle, shuffling the plates with his momentum and Jade sinks down into her chair giggling.

“Doesn’t matter,” Zayn says, unaffected by the wine or the night.

Zoe nods slowly, smirking. Zayn gives a careless shrug, turning a little into Liam’s arm. “People are shite about it but it doesn’t matter. As long as you’re happy.”

“Aw, bless,” Jade hiccups, giggling into her hand.

“Cheers,” Zoe agrees, raising her eyebrows at him.

Zayn sighs gently, his teeth nipping at his lower lip out of habit. He stubs out the pinch of cigarette left, crushing the embers, feeling weightless.

(stripped of the guilt momentarily)

Uncoordinated fingers ease up his cheek before they carefully fix the glasses on his nose. Zayn looks up, trying to school the shock out of his face.

Liam grins drowsily and all the lights dim behind his face. “Looking _fit_ Clark Kent.”

The heat in his chest is so fucking sharp that Zayn laughs to make it subside. He watches Liam’s nose scrunch when he giggles and, bloody hell, this does feel a bit magical.

His fingers reach up to tangle into Liam’s soft mohawk, catching on the gelled bits, his thumb massaging over the buzzed sides. “Shut up Jimmy Olsen,” he mutters under his breath.

Liam snickers and they stay like this for another hour ― Paris fading in the background while their hands find their favorite parts to anchor to.

To keep them steady.

 

//

 

Zayn has been pretending to scroll through his Instagram for minutes now but, actually, he’s watching Liam.

He’s studying how anxious Liam is, fidgety and all the neurons of adrenaline show under his skin. Bright red pulses as Liam moves about the room. They’re still a bit lit from the wine, dizzy and goofy but he hasn’t seen Liam like _this_.

Not much. Not lately, he thinks.

Zayn huffs out a soft breath, dropping his phone before asking, “Vas happenin’ babe?”

Liam startles like an animal in the open. He chews at his lower lip until it turns soft like sugary fruit, well ripe and slick with his spit. He scratches a hand through his hair, exhaling.

“Nothing,” he replies, shrugging carelessly. “Still buzzing from the wine. Just a buzz. S’nothing.”

Zayn nods back slowly, quirking his lips. Liam is still a shit liar; has been since they were barely teens. He stammers too much, loses control over his vocabulary, those fuzzy eyebrows knit like a winter jumper.

“You’re weird,” Zayn smirks.

“Shut up,” Liam pouts, still bopping from foot to foot. Still so much energy glowing off of him.

Zayn feels sluggish and knackered from the wine and he’s never got how opposite but alike he and Liam are. Almost identical halves on a string of chromosomes. Or something like that.

Liam’s lip is a red velvet when he finishes sucking on it and his next breath is so unintentionally shaky that Zayn feels worried over it.

“Babe?”

Liam looks down, dragging his hands together, scrunching his nose.

“But like, maybe,” he whispers, his voice shaky, “M’ a bit horny too? Well aroused or whatever. Like, I dunno, man, I’m rambling.”

“Like always,” Zayn half-teases, finally exhaling with Liam.

Liam flips him off with a bright giggle that sticks to Zayn’s ears like the noise of a spring shower in the morning. The way it plops off rooftops and keeps you from crawling out of the bed.

A quiet, frustrated groan parts Liam’s lips. He shuffles about some more, unconsciously resting a hand over his crotch and Zayn doesn’t _stare_. He looks, occasionally, on accident. Blush thumps in his cheeks when Liam blinks at him, still pouting.

“Oi, bro, just have at it. In the loo. Go toss off or sommat,” Zayn offers, lowering his chin.

He stares down at his hands. His dick thickens a little under his jogging bottoms, stretching the fabric, wetting the cotton of his pants. It’s the worst sort of feeling, being aroused at his best mate’s hand smoothing down the thickness of his own cock.

(it’s natural, he tells himself, because Zayn fancies lads and Liam is a bloke ― a rather fit one if Zayn is being objective)

(he’s not, he swears)

Liam sighs, lower, chewing his lip again. “But you’ll be in here and, like,” he pauses and Zayn (daftly) looks up curiously. “It seems dumb, Zayn. I mean, we’ll be stuck with each other for, like, _weeks_ ― “

“That hardly sounds like a compliment, Li,” Zayn mocks.

“We should just deal with it,” Liam says, his face scrunched.

Zayn raises an eyebrow, leaning against the headboard of his bed, forcing a hand over his dick. He hopes Liam doesn’t notice.

“It’s not like we haven’t seen each other arse-naked before ― “

“Yeah, but not,” Zayn says, quietly, “ _like that_ , mate.”

He laughs to disguise the nerves and Liam turns a shade of sugary pink that Zayn sort of admires. He likes how brown it makes Liam’s eyes and the way it shows the contours of his face.

This is bloody manic is what it is.

Liam gives him a thoughtless one-shouldered shrug, staring resolutely at the floor for a moment. “Think we could just, like, toss one off?”

“Together?” Zayn asks, tasting every letter. He waits until Liam lifts his chin before wriggling his eyebrows.

Liam exhales a quiet laugh, wrinkling his brow. “S’ppose so.”

Zayn nods. “Feisty.”

Liam crinkles his nose, rolling his eyes. “S’not like I don’t know when you’re doing it. In the loo. Always trying to be quiet and stuff.”

Zayn feels the flush attack his cheeks, his teeth clenching at his bottom lip.

“You don’t ― “

“You’re not quiet, man.”

Zayn sighs half a laugh, flipping Liam off. “Yeah, well,” he shrugs, pushing his flat hair off his forehead, “you’re a bit loud in the shower when you do it. C’n always tell when ya having a proper good one. Sounds like you’re dying or sommat.”

Liam freezes. His fingers tighten to fists at his side and his skin speckles with raspberry blush. It’s a bit distracting but Zayn’s eyes drag over him, briefly, and he can see Liam’s still fattening up in his jeans. The denim is darker and stretched, like he’s precoming at the thought of Zayn catching him.

 _Oh_.

Zayn sighs gently, wriggling his eyebrows at Liam before budging over. He pats a warm spot next to him on the bed, giving a stiff shrug when Liam stares down at his hand.

He can hear Liam’s swallow, the way it catches in his throat, his breath going erratic.

Hesitantly, Liam finally shuffles over and flops down next to Zayn. There’s a thin gleam of sweat over his skin and he looks _wrecked_ , even if they’re just having a chat. Taking the piss, really. It’s nothing more but ―

“Yeah alright,” Zayn agrees. He knocks their shoulders, keeping it playful, waiting for the tension to smooth out of Liam’s muscles. “S’not like we ― we’re mates. You’re my best mate and stuff. So we can, um.”

From nowhere, Liam blurts out a laugh. He curls in on himself a bit, giggling, poking at the spaces between Zayn’s ribs until it’s like they’re sixteen again.

Flashlights and admitting they’re into lads and just being themselves.

“Piss off,” Zayn grins. “It’s awkward.”

“Yeah,” Liam breathes, still snickering, eyes still slightly crinkled. “Kinda is, mate.”

Zayn nods, biting softer at his lip. “Can’t believe we’re chatting about this.”

Liam grins, pressing a hot shoulder to Zayn’s. “Can’t believe I’ve gotten a proper stiffy over it.”

A slick tongue slides over Zayn’s lips and, absentmindedly, pulls his hand off the cotton pushing against his half-hard dick. He shrugs carelessly, tipping his chin up.

“How should we, like. Y’know?” he asks, wiggling his toes, ignoring the way Liam keeps sneaking stares at his stretched bottoms.

(It’s a bit arousing, he’ll admit, because it feels like ages since a lad gave him those looks or since he got to show off how hard someone’s made him)

(even if it’s _Liam_ and ― fucking hell)

Liam leans back for a moment, exhaling hard. He shrugs mildly, blinking at the ceiling before his mouth curls into a small smile. He jostles about the bed, stretching to snatch his laptop from the floor. It’s settled on his thighs, Liam leaning over it to close a bunch of tabs, flushed and embarrassed about the Batman ones.

Zayn snorts, slouching down and he’s missed it. When Liam’s snapped open the button on his jeans, the zip slowly crawling down the thicker his cock gets under it. The denim shifting while Liam’s dick throbs underneath.

The small valley of tan skin exposed between the band of his boxers and the rucked up hem of his shirt. A fuzzy trail of hair disappearing beneath the tartan pattern, the soft circle of Liam’s navel when he leans back.

“Got some stuff, um, on here,” Liam says, trying to sound nonchalant. A _casual-as-fuck_ cool Liam never mastered, Zayn thinks.

“Really?” Zayn replies, lifting teasing eyebrows.

Liam scowls but it doesn’t last. It never does when Zayn tickles spare fingers under Liam’s shirt to scratch along his skin.

He huffs, nudging away. He queues up one of those free porn sites, scrolling through pages, humming like this is nothing.

Just two lads being normal ― seconds from wanking off together.

Yeah, this is far from mental, thanks.

“Lads or, like?” Liam wonders, blushing.

Zayn scoffs. He reaches into Liam’s lap, astutely inching away from where Liam’s dick peeks out of his boxers, glistening at the tip. His fingers click through a few more pages before he settles back.

“Doesn’t matter, but, um,” he breathes, gnawing at his lip, “I prefer blokes, I s’ppose.”

Liam grins, nodding, keeping his head low to hide all of the pink along his cheeks.

It feels a bit standard ― the porn. Two young lads snogging, peeling off clothes, groping at their stiffies while making wet noises with their kisses. Breathless little gasps like they’re so keyed up on each other. Kissing on the neck, grinding, falling onto a neatly made bed, never missing a beat.

Some kid with dark hair sliding onto his knees, mouthing at a slick cock, deep throating in seconds.

Zayn winces, shaking his head. It’s amusing, really because this lad gags like it’s not uncomfortable and the other boy, with round cheeks and candy red lips, keeps rolling his hips and panting at the ceiling.

“S’never like that,” Liam puffs out.

Zayn tenses for a second because ― _right_. Liam’s still here. Next to him, the head of his cock drawn over the top of his boxers, his skin sweaty and flushed.

He’s rubbing himself, sticky strings between his fingers. It’s distracting, the wetness of Liam’s prick, his appreciative breaths when the first lad eases his mate onto his stomach.

“ _Oh_ ,” Liam whispers and Zayn looks away (from Liam’s strong fingers and the lazy motion his palm does around the tip, the foreskin still covering most of the head) to watch a long pink tongue slide over the other boy’s hole.

“S’good,” Zayn shrugs. “When they do that. Feels brilliant.”

Liam swallows loudly. The laptop rocks crookedly over his thighs as Liam clumsily shucks his jeans down, his boxers too. His dick smacks back ( _loud, wet_ ) against his belly, splattering strips of precome up his skin. His cheeks are spotted with star-shaped blush and his eyes have gone a bit dark.

“I’ve never,” Liam chokes, keeping each breath tight in his chest. “Never done it, actually.”

Zayn hums curiously, cocking his mouth to speak but his throat has gone dry. Instead, he focuses on a tongue wiggling deeper into a clenching hole and the other lad exhaling roughly into a pillow, gnawing at it.

He feels tense in every yard of his bones. His muscles keep contracting, releasing without his consent. He’s hot all over and his cock has soaked his joggers but he can’t move his hands to tug it out.

Somehow, Zayn has gone shy, not like Liam. He feels anything but brave, even next to his best mate. It’s stupid but he feels bashful and incapable of just ―

“Hey,” Liam mumbles, his elbow accidentally nudging Zayn.

His thumb is spreading thick precome all down the shaft of his cock but he’s not putting much effort into it.

Just this lazy motion like his bones are liquid.

Zayn’s cock fills out completely under his joggers while sneaking glances at Liam. The slick, pinkish-red length of his cock, his foreskin slipping back. Shiny fingers making a mess down the soft skin. The shaft rising and falling off his belly like it’s _aching_ for more.

For Liam to give himself a proper stroke, work himself up into this noisy madness like the two lads on the screen.

“S’alright,” Liam encourages, his voice deeper, raw. “S’okay t’ just, like, take it out, okay? Go on then.”

Zayn’s brow scrunches low, his eyes squinting. He swears it’s the wine working through his system now because he lifts his hips to drag down his bottoms, letting the elastic catch around his thighs while he eases his cock into his palm.

The screen is fuzzy, a close-up of a cock sliding bare into a spit-slick hole and ―

 _Wow_.

He feels so responsive when his fingers curl properly around the head. His thumb teases the tip, pressing to the slit, everything blurring out like there’s neon paint in his vision. His toes curl and he squeaks out a soft moan.

“That’s it,” Liam whispers, his voice slurred.

Zayn eases his legs apart, feeling the hot pulse of Liam’s thigh against his. He can’t quite control his breathing or the rhythm of his heart. It’s all noisy, _outrageous_ if he’s being honest. He keeps his hand moving slow, matching Liam’s pulses, losing focus on the screen.

It’s not staring ( _admiring_ , he thinks) but his eyes train on Liam’s hand, his knuckles. The way his long fingers create a loose grip for his hips to fuck up into. It’s so wet, his cock dripping all over, the gloss translucent and fluorescent in this light.

“Fuck,” Liam mumbles. “That’s hot.”

They’re really going for it on the screen – the bed squeaking, drawn up on their knees, hips smacking a bum and fingers curled into a messy halo of cinnamon-gold curls. Everything is fast and intense. There’s moans becoming a symphony under the noise of their sweaty bodies knocking over the bed.

There’s a hitch in Zayn’s breath that he can’t stop. It gets louder, in his chest, when he feels Liam moving next to him, wanking furiously.

A gasp shocks him out of orbit and a hand sneaks over his bare thigh. Fingers dig in, pinching at Zayn’s skin.

Zayn lifts his eyes under his lashes, dazed and feeling the tiny bolts of lightning in his blood. He spots the overly pink cheeks first, then the wide eyes, the bottom lip ruined by sharp teeth.

He swallows with Liam and there’s a question buried in Liam’s eyes. A nervous _‘can I?’_ that Zayn doesn’t recognize immediately because he’s too high off their scent ― Liam’s musky smell and the boyish aroma of Zayn’s dick, their sweat, that hint of sex that always sticks to a room.

“Bit crazy, innit?” Liam asks and the rasp of his voice makes Zayn smile.

(He likes that, maybe, all of this has Liam feeling like someone else. Someone braver. Bolder.)

And he knows it, almost instantly, when a hand smooths up his thigh, the indent of his hip, knocking Zayn’s fingers away to squeeze around his dick.

Zayn hiccups a moan and Liam leans in, just a little, cocking an eyebrow. “Too much?”

A gasp parts his lips and Zayn shakes his head fervently.

“Nope.”

“Cool.”

“Cool,” Zayn repeats, leaning back, panting at the ceiling until his thighs stop jumping.

Shyly, with every last inch of hesitation soaking his blood, Zayn shifts his hand into Liam’s lap. This should be mutual, right? Just two lads (best mates) giving each other a hand.

Fuck that sounds horrible in his head. And daft.

His fingers curl anxiously around Liam’s twitching shaft, precome dribbling over his knuckles. Consciously, he waits until Liam stops holding his breath before he starts to move his hand.

He draws his eyebrows together in concentration. Zayn tries to mimic what Liam had been doing to himself but he’s too lost on the way Liam’s breathing harshly. Instead, he corkscrews his hand around the head, fancying the way Liam’s so wet right here.

Sticky and slick, the tip squeezing out massive amounts of precome all over Zayn’s palm. It makes it noisier, bloody arousing.

“Oh, right there.”

Zayn’s uncertain if the moan comes from the screen or from Liam’s parted lips but he gives up on thinking. He thumbs back Liam’s foreskin, grinning at all of the hidden slick behind it, feeling his own hips lift off the bed to fuck his cock between Liam’s fingers.

They’re desperate, caught between laughing and groaning, high off the noises caught in their throats.

Zayn nibbles over his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut. Liam’s casually incredible at this ― like he’s got a blueprint of Zayn’s nerves. All the little ticks and pulses that make Zayn squirm. A bloody craftsman building Zayn’s orgasm.

“Li,” Zayn whines, thumping his head against the wall.

Liam hums appreciatively, squeezing the shaft and rubbing his thumb under the crown of Zayn’s dick.

“Just keep going,” Zayn moans.

“You too,” Liam says raggedly, dropping his sweat-slick brow onto Zayn’s shoulder. “Fuck. S’good. Like, Zayn, I’m so ― “

His breaths soak through Zayn’s shirt and his cock twitches, pulses in Zayn’s hand.

“Yeah?”

Liam giggles a bit, inching out a whimper when Zayn pulls the foreskin back over the head. “Careful, careful,” he pleads, rocking his hips. “Could come like that.”

Zayn doesn’t make a mental memo of that but ―

(this is absolutely bloody unreal because he wants to remember this little firefly of a moment and the things Liam likes and how to tease him into making those filthy noises)

It’s a reflex when he circles around the tip of Liam’s cock, the laptop sliding away between their knees, knocked over. Liam keeps breathing into his neck and Zayn feels thunderbolts all down his skin.

He can’t help chasing his orgasm and Liam’s wiggling next to him, keening like he knows it.

Like it’s all he wants.

“Oh shit,” Zayn groans, tipping his head back, watching the fuzzy dots on the ceiling.

“Hmm?”

“Liam,” Zayn gasps, going still. “Li, like. I’m fucking about to ― right there. Fuck.”

He’s always thought himself proud to be rather quiet when he comes. He doesn’t exaggerate like in cheesy porn or shout or even inch the volume of his voice. It’s stealthy and soft, like he’s not going to give anyone the pleasure of owning it but himself.

But this is overwhelming.

He comes with a whimper that turns into a grunt, a fevered wail. Goosebumps tickle all over his skin and his legs shake. He curls his toes and comes in these thick streams up his belly, over Liam’s knuckles. A blur of white he thinks he’ll never forget.

“Wow, fuck,” he breathes, his voice shaky, his breathing shameful.

His vision still feels dim and blurred but he lazily cocks his head back to have a proper view of Liam. His arm goes a bit dead but he keeps a loose circle for Liam to fuck up into.

“Shit.”

Zayn blinks away the graininess from his eyes and watches Liam. He stares as Liam pulls his hand away, Zayn’s dick going soft on his belly. His tongue sneaks out and Zayn swears he’s losing it.

He fucking swears this is a lucid dream because a cautious pink tongue sneaks out and laps Zayn’s come from Liam’s fingers. Pearly drops catching over his tongue, an obscenely endearing expression falling over Liam’s face as he sucks the wetness off the tips of his fingers.

Zayn blinks hard twice before Liam groans, lurching his hips up, looking completely embarrassed as he nuts with his tongue flicking come off his thumb.

“Fuck,” Zayn exhales.

Liam slumps down on the bed, drawing his knees up a bit, breathing roughly. He looks bashful, his face going crimson, his expression crumpling.

He quickly steals a pillow to hide behind, groaning shamefully into it.

Zayn feels a fuzzy laugh stretch up his chest, sighs it out before snatching the pillow away. Liam doesn’t give much of a fight, tossing a forearm over his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, chewing his lower lip. “I sort of get off on, like. Was a bit weird, innit?”

It’s silly but Zayn doesn’t tell him. Instead, he leans forward, pressing messy kisses over Liam’s cheek, punching playfully at his shoulder.

“Nope.”

“You sure?” Liam asks with a worried brow, a sore red lip.

Zayn rolls his eyes, shrugging. “Just shut up, will ya? ‘m drunk and knackered.”

Liam breathes out a content sigh nodding. His face smooths into something recognizable – like they’re still just two dumb mates reading over comic books and being utter idiots over nothing.

They kick out of unwanted clothes (their shirts, Liam’s jeans and socks) just to snuggle down onto Liam’s bed (because it’s _clean_ and a little less, well, smeared in the afterglow of their musky scents) silently. There’s an unnamed space between them for a few breaths, a cold current where their bodies no longer touch.

Liam rolls onto his side, away from Zayn, cuddling to a pillow. Even breaths and a stiff spine. Almost as if he’s scared to look at Zayn or maybe he’s just too tired to be bothered with a chat.

Or something like that.

It leaves this chill down in Zayn’s pores. Maybe he should just crawl into his own bed, where the laptop screen has gone blue and the sheets are spotted with their leftover come.

He hates thinking.

Instead, he casually rolls onto his side (because he’s feeling brave now, like a proper hero) and shuffles forward until he’s pressed along Liam’s spine. He spoons up behind Liam, curling his arms over Liam’s chest, vining their legs together over the sheets.

“G’night geek,” he whispers to the nape of Liam’s neck, his lips quirking into a huge smile.

It’s fascinating, the way Liam shivers and exhales like he’s easing back into his skin.

Like having Zayn close like this is the one thing that settles him back into gravity. It makes everything else drift off.

Zayn closes his eyes, too sleepy and slow from the wine, and tries not to think about that.

Or anything at all.

 

//

 

“S’not happening, you twat,” Zayn grunts, glaring up at the Eiffel Tower, all the iron lit in gold and bronze hues after twilight.

All of the lattice is quite breathtaking from here. On the ground. Two feet secure to the grass. Close to the earth.

Zayn scowls at the structure, folding his arms across his chest, breathing tight breaths through his teeth like he’s determined not to move. For anyone or anything.

Not even Liam, the bloody twit.

Liam smirks next to him, leaning back on his heels to snap another photo of the massive monument.

The sky spreads out in a fluff of pink, purple, and blue while the needle of the tower spikes high over them. When he hears the click and wind of the camera again, Zayn is certain that its Liam’s _ninth_ shot. Probably more.

(and he’s also positive that each shot is bloody brilliant from this angle, catching all the lights and the shapes and the circus-themed sky in the background)

“C’mon babe,” Liam whines happily, nudging Zayn with a sharp elbow. “S’not that bad.”

“Define _‘bad,’_ ” Zayn insists, sighing.

Liam pouts petulantly, focusing his lens for another photo.

Zayn cranes his neck back to look up. There’s no ending to the iron’s reach and Zayn feels a vicious shiver down his spine at the thought.

“It’s dreadful,” he moans.

“But we gotta. We went to the Louvre for you,” Liam complains.

Zayn knocks their shoulders with a huff, grinning proudly when he mucks up Liam’s next shot. “It was for class, you dick,” he mumbles. “And you liked it.”

Liam bites along his lower lip, muting a small smile.

“Didn’t really get all the art stuff you talked about,” Liam shrugs.

Zayn scoffs at him, his eyes widening a bit comically, he’s sure. “Not even the stuff about romanticism? The art collection from Islam?”

Liam snorts, coughs the giggle into the sleeve of his Henley. He ducks his head, shrugging lazily. “Not really but you looked sort of cute when you kept pushing up your glasses while talking.”

Zayn scrunches his nose, pouting. It knocks his glasses out of place and he uses his middle finger to nudge them back into place ―

 _Bloody fuck_.

Liam’s staring and blushing at him and Zayn tries not look mortified about it all.

“I’m gutted, Li, honestly.”

“C’mon, Zaynie, it’s the City of Lights, man,” Liam huffs, slinging a heavy arm around Zayn’s shoulders. He sniffs at the air, Paris clinging to this daydream scent of fresh rain and sandalwood.

“And I can get the best view from up there,” he adds, cheering, pointing excitedly to the top of the tower.

Zayn refuses to look up that high. He digs his boots into the grass, wincing.

“Don’t like heights, Li,” he whispers, blinking down at the ground.

“I know, but,” Liam pauses, adjusting the strap of his camera around his neck. His spare arm squeezes tighter around Zayn’s shoulders as if to say all the words his mouth hasn’t.

They bank into the silence for a moment. All the tourists around them coo over the lighting, the romance of the evening. Zayn can’t deny it ― a bright purple sky and the soft sway of summer wind and this place.

This feeling in his chest that feels out of control. It’s all so manic. A _go-then-stop_ rhythm in his blood and he wonders if it’s the same for Liam.

(or maybe he’s just that daft, maybe his sister is bloody right for once?)

The tip of Liam’s nose drags the shell of Zayn’s ear and he _feels_ Liam’s smile before he hears it in his voice.

“Alright, yeah. Down here is good. It’s chill, man.”

It sounds completely out of place coming out of Liam’s mouth, the way he’s always tried to mimic Zayn with his speech. The words he uses. But just that easily, all of the breath Zayn didn’t realize he was holding exhales from his body and he fits under Liam’s arm like a star finally in orbit.

“Sure?” he wonders.

Liam laughs, noisy and relaxed. “Sure, dude.”

“Idiot,” Zayn grins.

“Prick,” Liam replies, lazily, pulling Zayn from their island of grass in the middle of the gardens.

Casually, they stroll around Champ de Mars while the tower glows a halo of gold behind them. Through all of the green and the overhead lights, they scuff through grass and over the pavement. In silence, but not the awkward kind. The sort of quiet that doesn’t get muddled with words.

That hush you associate with silent films ― vintage black and white, where words aren’t necessary for the soul to feel the moment.

“Wouldn’t mind coming back. One day,” Liam says, navigating them around a winding path.

Zayn hums, curious. He lifts an eyebrow at Liam.

Liam gives a small shrug, a crooked smile. “Watch the fireworks on Bastille Day. Have dinner at one of the restaurants in the tower. By candlelight?”

“Bit romantic, eh?” Zayn teases.

Liam ducks his head but his smile is visible from a million yards away.

“S’kinda lad I’d like t’ be one day. Shove off.”

Zayn bites over his grin, feeling defenseless for a second. Yeah, he wants to be that sort of bloke too. One day.

He nods at Liam, keeping it short and sharp but his hand slides between their hips, finding Liam’s without looking. He gives it a soft grab, lacing their warm fingers into a crisscross like the tower’s structure.

“ _So_ ,” he huffs, his cheeks hot and pink, a childlike shyness crawling into his voice, “you really didn’t understand all of my art shit?”

“If I’m being honest,” Liam drags out, smiling. “Nope. Not one word, mate.”

Zayn groans but it’s not enough to stub out the fondness in his voice when he says, “Alright. We’ll start with the Renaissance. Try t’ keep up this time.”

Liam cocks his head back for a laugh but nods along, giving Zayn’s hand a small squeeze.

The air is fresh with evening dew and the little jolts in Zayn’s heart leave him numb everywhere except the where his fingers connect with Liam’s.

 

//

 

“Good shit,” Zayn grins, wriggling his eyebrows.

“Good shit,” Liam echoes, the words chased by a fit of giggles, his voice tight from the thick smoke.

He hacks roughly into the crook of his elbow before he can take his next pull, blindly passing the spliff to Andy as he drags in a sharp breath through his nose.

Zayn leans back on his palms, the cheap bed under him squeaking as he moves. His lips quirk up high when Liam blinks at him, this warm dreamy glow around him like he’s starting to finally settle into his first high.

Amsterdam is fantastic, really. Minutes from midnight, the city burns soft like lavender. They’re stuffed into some kid’s hostel room like a pack of thieves ― just a small group of students sharing spliffs and a bottle of gin and laughing like their insides are made of neon.

There’s this constant scent of fresh tulips that Zayn loves. In the background, on repeat, Zayn can hear _‘bring your own lampshade somewhere there’s a party here its never-ending can’t remember where it started’_ and he loves the way it fits this scene ― this misfit pack of uni students buzzing on a Saturday night in the middle of summer.

He focuses his eyes on Liam, squinting to blink away the haze from the smoke.

Liam coughs his way through his first few pulls from a joint. It’s new, like that lazy smile on Liam’s fairly red mouth and this shine to his skin. He’s pale and pink with half-drowsy eyes, feathered eyelashes hiding their usual dark whiskey color.

He giggles at every dumb joke and pulls his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. He cocks his head at Zayn like his tongue is too heavy to lift out a _‘what’s up’_ and Zayn just grins.

His lips pull up and he fucking _beams_ at Liam because ―

Yeah, this is brilliant. This feeling in his chest from the smoke (and something else, okay?) and all of his nerves standing on end and the window cracked open to let it that scent of tulips.

This city is _sick_ , he reckons.

“C’mere,” Zayn says low, his voice raspy from another pull.

Liam blinks at him owlishly for a moment, watching Zayn’s hand pat at an empty spot on the bed.

Zayn sniffs, cocking his chin up, daring Liam with sharp eyes. He waits, some Italian student with her bronze skin and sea-soaked hair scooting away for a drink, leaving behind a warm spot next to Zayn.

A spot for Liam, he thinks, still smiling goofily.

Liam gives a half-shrug, nodding, scampering across the tiny room to bundle down next to Zayn.

“Feeling good?” Zayn wonders.

Liam wheezes a laugh, anchoring his head to Zayn’s shoulder. “Bloody _mint_.”

Zayn snorts, threading a hand into Liam’s downy hair.

“Yeah. S’good, right?”

Liam gives another halfhearted shrug, exhaling like he’s knackered. Or just lazier when he’s high.

“S’cool,” Liam replies, lowering his voice, the smoke still making it scratchy but calm. “Like, it’s cool ‘cause you’re here. Wouldn’t wanna, like. Not with this lot. Or anyone else?”

Zayn listens intently without looking at Liam. He narrows his vision on two girls snogging on the other bed, Andy howling half of the lyrics of the song. The way the night streaks the mostly dim room bluish under the wreaths of smoke.

“S’that cool?” Liam asks, quieter.

Zayn huffs a laugh. “Sure, Li. I’ll always be here, man.”

“Yeah?”

“Course, babe,” Zayn replies, knocking his chin to Liam’s temple. He feels warm all over at Liam’s reaction to the stubble scraping his skin ― the soft yelp and ragged giggle Liam gives.

It’s like holding your hand to the sun; the intensity, the wait to see if your skin melts away or just throbs against the heat.

He thinks he’s too poetic when he’s buzzing. Or wordy. Or just, well, mental.

 _Oh_.

“I’m just like,” Liam breathes, a quick in and out flow that Zayn matches his own breaths with. “I’m floating? No, no. That’s daft.”

“Silly,” Zayn says, giggling.

“Bloody manic,” Liam agrees, his mouth curling around the words. “But I feel out of control. Not in an awful way, y’know? Dunno. Fuck.”

Zayn sighs happily, tightening his fingers in Liam’s hair, shaping his skull with his palm.

“No, s’cool, babe,” he mumbles, half-turning his mouth into Liam’s hair. He likes the scent (citrus and vanilla, not that shitty hotel shampoo) and the way the longer bits tickle under his nose.

“Yeah?”

Zayn hums, leaning away a few yards when Liam tips his head up to look at him. The moon is too far behind the clouds but it still leaves a tepid shine over Liam’s face and his ruddy cheeks, his thick eyebrows pulling down.

“Yeah,” Zayn smiles.

“Crazy,” Liam smirks, heavy eyes widening enough for Zayn to see they’re a bit like dark rum. Like spices. Earthy.

(too bloody poetic and wordy, he thinks)

He feels all of his thoughts catch and tangle like spider webs, something burning up his lungs like a dragon taking its first fiery breath. Too buzzed on his high to put it all together so he watches Liam’s mouth instead. Liam’s tongue absently flicks out to wet his lips and they turn this cotton candy color in the dark. And Zayn can’t think but he just _wants_ ―

He wants.

It’s a little fumbled, the angle of their heads, but their noses brush in this tickling way before Liam flutters his eyes shut and Zayn kisses him. It’s slow and hesitant. Your first kiss before you knew how to properly snog someone.

Wet and soft, lazy. Cautious with that slight hint of pressure.

Zayn likes it, letting his fingers tickle under Liam’s chin, over the scratch of stubble, grinning against Liam’s mouth when he sighs contently.

Like a bloody kite in the wind, he thinks, daftly. Their lips move aimlessly and they just float.

Zayn drags his lips and teeth over Liam’s bottom lip, for a taste, before knocking back. Liam hiccups out of the kiss, stained a bright red, looking a little awed. Zayn feels gold underneath his skin and he knows he shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t feel and he shouldn’t kiss his best mate and he _shouldn’t_.

“Well,” Liam hums.

Zayn turns his head, coughing into his shoulder, keeping his eyes low. “Sorry, man,” he says, his voice cracking midway. “The smoke, like, it does stuff. Can’t think right when ‘m high.”

There’s a hollow of silence covered by their breaths and the noise of Andy’s laughter, the other students cheering when another spliff is sparked up.

Zayn feels like he could fit a battleship and a massive ocean between them, even though they’re still touching at small points – their knees and shoulders and Liam’s fingers over Zayn’s collarbone. But it feels awkward and, well, it never is with them.

Liam exhales a giggle, knocking Zayn’s chin up with his knuckles. There’s soft wrinkles around his eyes from smiling too hard and this dopey grin on his swollen lips (from Zayn’s kiss, shit) and Zayn tries to mimic it.

“S’that, like,” Liam pauses, rolling the words in his mouth like bubblegum, “is that what they call, um. Shotgun? Dunno.”

Zayn’s lips twitch up crookedly, teeth pulling in his lower lip.

“You’re a donut,” he hums, thumping Liam’s shoulder with a soft punch.

Liam shrugs, bashful.

“Oi, you wanna try a shotgun?” Cara, a slight girl with choppy hair and huge eyes like the moon, wonders from across the room.

She stumbles up, spilling gin as she goes, the straps of her top slipping down her shoulders. Zayn squints at her when she flops down into Liam’s lap, taking a swig, giggling into his ear.

“C’n show ya, nice and proper,” she offers, waving her spare hand around for a joint.

Andy snorts, pinching the last of a bud between two fingers, passing it carefully to her.

“Well, um,” Liam stammers.

Zayn peers at the splatter of blush all over Liam’s cheeks. His droopy eyes follow Cara as she takes a long drag like a fucking _pro_ , tipping her head back while she holds the smoke in.

“S’like snogging someone but better?” she says, her voice gone tight.

“Better,” Andy agrees.

“Bloody fantastic,” Luke nods.

Liam blinks at them, heavy eyebrows crinkling, lips puckering. “Better,” he mumbles, tilting his head.

Cara nods contently, sucking in another breath of smoke. She cups Liam’s chin roughly, cocking his head up, grinning as she leans down.

“Maybe,” Zayn blurts loudly, trying to school the anxiousness in his voice.

(trying to remind himself that, _no_ , this is not jealousy snapping his nerves in half right now)

His blood splinters with ice and his hand is shaking when he shoves it into the small space between their mouths. Liam raises a curious eyebrow and Cara chokes back the smoke, crawling out of Liam’s lap.

“Maybe,” Zayn repeats, swallowing, inching in. “Not so rough?”

Cara scowls at him, waving him back. “M’not being ― “

Zayn steals the stub of a joint from between her fingers with a put upon grin. It hides the _‘eat me dick okay?’_ his tongue is harboring before he takes a quick, enthusiastic pull, fitting into her abandoned space.

“Lemme show you,” he offers, keeping the smoke in his throat, nodding at Liam.

Liam nods slowly back, this wrinkle of confusion all over his face.

Zayn ignores it (he _tries_ to) and eases his fingers around Liam’s jaw like he always does. Just a tease, right? A little game they’re used to playing. Dumbly affectionate and just two lads making each other laugh.

“Gotta open up there, Payne,” Luke shouts and the noise startles Liam.

His eyes blink wider, his jaw going slack under Zayn’s fingers. Zayn smiles gently, nodding. His nose brushes over Liam’s and he waits, counting the seconds, staring down at Liam’s mouth until his lips slide open.

“That’s a good lad,” Jade hums.

There’s a dry brush of their lips, a soft skim before Zayn parts his mouth and exhales the smoke over Liam’s teeth. He breathes it out slowly, a gentle chant of _‘breathe in, breathe in’_ going off in his head but it’s like Liam can hear him.

It’s a connection and it’s quite mad but Liam carefully sucks in the smoke that Zayn sighs out.

“Keep breathing,” Zayn mumbles, shifting closer. “Just keep ― “

He ditches the last word to fit his mouth over Liam’s. The exhale of the smoke is pushed over Liam’s lips with a flick of Zayn’s tongue. It drags over Liam’s teeth, licking over his upper lip. He loves the hot drag of Liam’s breath and the way he can feel the sharpness of his teeth.

This blur in his head like he’s forgotten where he is.

“S’good, Zayner,” Andy laughs, his voice lazy, deep, “little more tongue next time, alright?”

Zayn stumbles out of the ― whatever that was.

(it’s not a kiss because Zayn doesn’t kiss his best mates)

Liam leans back on his hands with heavier eyes and a sloppy smile. He looks properly _fucked_ , all of the smoke and gin making him boneless. His skin is flushed and Zayn thinks about ―

Fucking hell.

He swallows down something awful, pushing to his feet. He pats his pockets for his cigarettes, drags a trembling hand through his hair. No one is watching them but he feels like the world has a massive spotlight beaming on him and he’s never liked that feeling.

He’s never enjoyed attention. Not like that.

“Need a ciggy,” he mutters, tugging a beat-up pack of Marlboro Reds from his back pocket, stealing someone’s lighter from one of the beds.

“Um,” Liam starts.

Zayn shakes his head, forcing out a grin. “Be back in a few, yeah?”

“But ― “

“S’no biggie, Li, just need a cigarette. Like a good smoke when ‘m feeling like this, alright?”

“Yeah, cool,” Liam nods but he stumbles to his feet, staggering a little, finding his balance with a gleeful little smile.

He plucks a cigarette from the pack, sliding it behind his ear, shrugging.

“Me too,” he mumbles, cupping the nape of his neck. “I mean, like. I c’n go with you. I won’t say anything. Just, like, feeling kind of weird, okay? Being high is ― “

“A bit mental, right?” Zayn offers and he feels so fucking helpless. He smiles at Liam like, yeah, he gets it. He’s been there.

(he knows the way it makes you think and feel kind of out of sorts)

Zayn pushes a hand into Liam’s hair, ruffling it, liking the way it’s soft and fallen out of its usual half-mohawk. The way it curls at the ends like when Liam was seventeen.

Liam exhales blissfully. He leans into Zayn’s palm like nothing’s happened.

(not a kiss or Zayn’s tongue along the roof of his mouth or his hand wrapped neatly around Zayn’s dick a fortnight ago)

“Just need to get out,” Liam sighs. “S’cool with you?”

Zayn chews at his lip. “S’cool with me, Li.”

Liam’s mouth twitches up into one of those daftly fond smile and Zayn regrets all of this already.

(because he grins back and they shuffle to the balcony without saying a word)

(like it’s _that easy_ for them)

 

//

 

Louis texts him ―

_‘nialler is amazing with his tongue! shagged on ur bed – not sorry! do u owe me £50 yet??’_

― and Zayn doesn’t bother replying.

Instead, he googles cheap one bedroom flats in London near campus while hollowing through his second cigarette.

Liam leans next to him, going on and on about the city, pressing his shoulder to Zayn’s like he needs this hot little coal of heat to stay between them.

(Zayn needs it to but he doesn’t admit it to Liam, or himself.)

He listens and drops a heavy arm around Liam’s shoulders, ignoring that little hopeful grin Liam shoots him from the corner of his eye.

He just wants to smoke and watch Amsterdam change colors before the sunset and listen to Liam’s voice for a little bit longer.

 

//

 

Zayn has always been a bit fascinated with wolves ―

(He only thinks this because Liam’s fingers have been absently brushing over the timber wolf inked to Zayn’s calf for an hour now while the train hums through the French countryside)

― and the meaning behind them.

Their instincts. Drifters, he thinks, chewing his lower lip, staring out the window at all the mint and gold bits of land, everything burning bright under the sun.

He keeps his chin on his knuckles, curled up in a soft hoodie, earbuds popped in while Liam’s fingers trace mindlessly over his bare calf. It makes the hairs stand up, a freckling line of goosebumps chasing Liam’s fingers.

Zayn tries not to think about how much he enjoys it ― all of Liam’s little touches, feeding the lightning between them, their livewire connection.

Instead, he blinks at the window, sighing, musing over wolves.

They’re not lonely ― they seek out their own. A mate. They create packs that stretch for kilometers. A bond that keeps them wandering the world, two souls stitched together.

Zayn sniffs, fluttering his eyelashes. He feels that aching fire surge up his shin where Liam’s fingers drift, skimming up the bone all the way to Zayn’s knee. Idle little circles as he prattles on to Andy about doing a pub crawl after Chamonix. Maybe Milan. Zayn doesn’t know.

He casually ( _purposely_ ) stretches his legs just enough that the warm heart of Liam’s palm finds the massive stain of ink again and hums gently to the Kendrick Lamar flooding his ears.

Liam is his pack. Always has been. Liam makes him feel like he _belongs_ ― to something, to this world. They watch over each other, drifting side by side. Two massive cubs knocking about through life, like familiars.

It’s weird, honestly. Liam clears his throat gently and Zayn startles out of those thoughts (thankfully) to lift an eyebrow at Liam. He watches Liam’s mouth begin to move and he tugs out his earbuds to hear him.

“Did you send your _baba_ ― “

Zayn nips roughly over the smile his lips start to create at the careful way Liam speaks Urdu, like he’s always tried to learn all of those little things that make Zayn.

Like he’s been trying to impress Zayn since they were still runts watching Power Rangers over bowls of Weetabix and cups of his mum’s milky tea.

“ ― pictures of your latest stuff yet?” Liam wonders, keeping his voice low.

A whisper just between them.

Zayn gives a slow nod, squeezing his chapped lip between sharp teeth.

“Did he like ‘em?”

Zayn shrugs haphazardly, ducking his head. He picks at a loose thread on his (no, _Liam’s_ because they’re too loose, the drawstring looped twice around his waist) shorts. Liam’s fingers keep mapping out the wolf until it feels like comfort.

Like finding a home in the middle of nowhere.

“He never says much,” Zayn mumbles with his lip still between his teeth. “Just sort of, I dunno. He says ‘m good and that’s it. S’all he ever mentions.”

“Yeah,” Liam breathes.

Zayn sniffs, his shoulders lowering, his body wanting to curl into something smaller. He keeps pulling at the string, absently waiting for it to snap.

“Feels like that’s why I’m here, mate,” Zayn adds, this cored out sun lumped into his throat. “Sorting it out. All of my art. For him, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I love drawing but ― “

“Yeah.”

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn whines, his voice sliding into something reflexively fond. He flushes all over, looking up through his thick eyelashes at the crooked grin on Liam’s lips.

The fucking smug bastard.

“Sorry,” Liam mutters but it’s far from convincing.

Zayn flicks Liam’s wrist in retaliation, sighing. “S’like I’m sort of trying to make him proud or sommat. To make him think I’m loads better than ‘ _good’_ but, like.”

He waves a hand about, trying to fill in all of the words jumbled in his throat. Zayn refuses to look at Liam this time but he thinks he understands. Those fingers draw a lightning bolt over Zayn’s skin and he shivers, automatically, at the drag of heat shifting up his muscles.

“Like this summer is a chance to get away from all of that,” Zayn adds. “No university. No family. Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Liam repeats, smirking.

“Yeah,” Zayn whispers and ― bloody fuck. Liam’s crawling under his skin, into his words, he swears.

( _a bond, a bond, a bond_ )

“I know the feeling,” Liam hums. “Needing to escape, hey?”

Zayn lifts his chin slowly, his mouth twitched up into a smile. He tilts his head to admire Liam, all of the heat and blush fading when Liam’s brow wrinkles curiously.

“What?” Liam laughs, the nervous noise echoing in their small space.

Zayn sucks on his bottom lip, smiling. “Nothing, mate,” he replies.

It’s nothing at all.

Zayn pops his earbuds back in, shifting about, keeping his leg stretched over Liam’s lap. Just a few more hours to Chamonix. Lazily, he spreads his hand over Liam’s on his calf, threading his fingers into the space in-between.

Liam is his pack.

 

//

 

He thinks the world is _breathtaking_ from this view ―

The French Alps and the clusters of trees everywhere. Mountains banked in powdery snow, even in the summer. The cozy village below their balcony, the ski lodge still burning a bright orange like a bonfire, crowded with tourists.

The night wrings around the village, all purple and lush, the world below turning blue from the lights and snow.

A tremble chases up Zayn’s spine. It’s colder here, at night, this incessant ghost of a breeze knocking over his shoulders.

There’s a cigarette tucked between his chapped lips, his spare hand cupped around a flame for the third try, hoping it sparks a light this time. It dances, licking at the tip of his cigarette, retreating at another whistle of wind.

“Fuck,” he mumbles around the filter, scowling.

“Idiot.”

Zayn wrinkles his eyebrows when Liam pops into his view, a teasing smirk rounding out his ruddy lips.

He plucks the cigarette from between Zayn’s determined lips, laughing when Zayn sighs. There’s a jumper fisted in his hand and he shoves it at Zayn, pressing the fuzzy material to Zayn’s chest until he snatches it away.

“Fucker,” Liam smiles, his cheeks pushing at his eyes.

“Piss off,” Zayn grumbles but ―

Fuck. He’s so grateful for Liam.

“Told you to pack one,” Liam mocks, tucking the ciggy behind his ear. His hands pull at the jumper when Zayn gets tangled in all of the material, flailing like a helpless child until Liam rearranges Zayn’s arms and stretches the collar around Zayn’s head.

“Better?” Liam asks, half-laughing.

Zayn pouts but – well, yeah.

It’s oversized, baggy around his torso, the sleeves cuffing around Zayn’s knuckles rather than his wrists. But he loves the scent of it, of all of Liam’s clothes, truthfully. Always stained in that pert melon body wash Liam loves and acidic cologne that reminds Zayn of oranges and boyish musk.

Belatedly, Zayn thinks maybe he does this on purpose ― rarely packing properly for any overnight trip so he can nick all of Liam’s stuff. His snapbacks and joggers and shirts too large for Zayn’s frame, even his socks.

It’s just that feel of Liam all around him, his smell, the comfort like having steamy cups of cocoa and marshmallows in the winter.

“M’not cold,” Zayn insists, even though he’s snuggling into the thick material of the jumper.

Liam cocks an eyebrow at him. “Bullshit.”

“Fuck off.”

“Filthy mouth,” Liam mumbles. “S’gonna be chilly on the terrace for dinner.”

Zayn lifts his shoulders for a halfhearted shrug, exhaling softly.

“C’mon you tosser,” Liam smirks, tugging at one of the sleeves, “Gonna be late for dinner with your art lot.”

A smile teases at Zayn’s lips but he bites it back. There’s a daft beanie tugged over Liam’s head, hiding all of his hair, a barely buttoned tartan shirt moving loosely with the wind. His cheeks and nose are already pink but he looks so _relaxed_. Easy.

Just another version of the Liam that Zayn has always known.

He nudges a cold palm to Liam’s cheek, spreading his fingers.

“Y’like me crowd.”

“Yeah, sure,” Liam says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve sorted out that that bunch is loads more fun than drowning in the Mediterranean.”

“You dick,” Zayn scoffs, punching weakly at Liam’s shoulder.

Liam barely flinches, shrugging. “It’s boring.”

“S’not.”

“Alright,” Liam sighs, smiling a little. “But only when that bunch starts arguing over which is the best Iron Man film.”

“The third one, obviously,” Zayn says, cheekily.

Liam mocks him, giggling when Zayn’s fingers sneak under the beanie to tug at Liam’s ear.

“The second one, mate,” Liam exhales, tossing an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, pulling him towards the door. “S’all about the story.”

A dopey smile lifts the corners of Zayn’s mouth. He doesn’t bother nicking back his cigarette or whining about how kick arse the original film was. Instead, he nuzzles into the weight of Liam’s arm and listens intently all the way to the lifts to all of Liam’s favorite plot points.

 

//

 

**Chamonix ― 21:35 PM**

_‘Music cleanses the soul and soothes the conscience._

_Harry loves Bon Iver. He sends me music all of the time and I found this ―_

_skinny love:_ “when two people love each other, but are too shy to admit it, yet they show it anyway.”

_Can’t get this tune out of my head. I keep thinking…_

_Doniya is right about me sometimes. Not all the time. Sometimes._

_Is speech an extension to our thoughts or an image that we like to create x’_

 

//

 

“We’re geeks for doing this, y’know?”

Zayn scoffs, crossing his ankles, stretching and yawning contently over their double bed.

It’s another night dusted bluish-lilac outside of Chamonix, the village buzzing quietly, all of the other students raiding the shops and streets, exploring all the little corners like curious children.

Zayn turned down every offer shoved at him from classmates over dinner, waving off the thought of pounding back drinks at the bar for this cozy room. This bed. This chance to do nothing but be lazy and sleepy with Liam humming next to him.

“Speak for y’self,” Zayn grins, slouching against the headboard, “I’m pretty fucking cool, man. Brilliant. Extraordinary. Astonishing.”

“Alright,” Liam groans, knocking an elbow into Zayn’s ribs. “Studying art, not Lit, okay?”

Zayn’s nose scrunches with his absolutely smug smirk, wriggling his eyebrows at Liam.

“But it’s true.”

Liam exaggerates a roll of his eyes, huffing as he snuggles his bum to the warm sheets. He flips Zayn off, smiling bashfully, clicking through a few tabs on his laptop. He queues up his film collection on the screen.

“You’re still a geek,” Liam insists. “Cause I’m a geek and I don’t wanna be one by me’self.”

“Of course,” Zayn snorts.

Another middle finger slides into view and Zayn just muffles a laugh into his hand, digging his chin into Liam’s shoulder.

Liam queues up the film and Zayn recognizes it immediately, chewing over his bottom lip while strips of color and the noise of _‘I’m hooked on a feeling’_ buzzes tinny from the speakers.

Zayn loves _the Guardians of the Galaxy_ , loves the soundtrack and, sometimes, catching Liam humming _‘but then I fooled around and fell in love’_ in the mirror after a shower is one of his favorite things.

The memory of a dark cinema and all of the action exploding over the screen sinks into his organs. A summer almost like this ― two lads wasting away before university. Sharing an armrest with Liam, trading boxes of candies back and forth, their eyes huge like twin moons, jaws unhinged with awe. Their foreheads knocking while laughing in unison, ignoring all the hissing _‘be quiet’_ around them.

Lovesick, punch-drunk on a film and the music and a moment.

“First thing I’m gonna do when we get back is go see _Ant-Man,_ ” Liam grins, wriggling his toes to the music, his shoulders lifting and falling to the rhythm.

Zayn snorts, a laugh tickling up his throat. “Nerd.”

Their elbows knock and there’s so much space around them but they scoot in close, little islands in an ocean, hip to hip. They smile down at the screen and synchronize their hums with huge grins.

“Gonna ditch off for a week with Netflix,” Zayn whispers. “Just me and _Daredevil_ , man. Fuck off and watch the whole season. Should be wicked.”

“Sick,” Liam says, his voice stuffed with awe like _Zayn_ is the amazing one.

(but, honestly, it’s all Liam ― he’s incredible and overwhelmingly happy and so clever, this bright explosion that Zayn swears no one can see but him)

“We’re bloody geeks, man,” Zayn laughs.

Liam nods dopily, offering Zayn a fist bump.

Zayn smirks crookedly, knocking his knuckles to Liam’s gently, exhaling a content breath.

(he doesn’t need the village or the piles of snow on the mountains or the glow of alcohol in his system ― just a lazy night with his best mate)

“Bloody geeks,” Liam repeats after a beat.

Zayn tucks his smile behind his teeth, slouching down and pulling up his knees while Liam, so casual and sluggish, drapes an arm around Zayn’s shoulders.

A proper cuddle and a film ― like a date.

Or, bloody fuck, _not like that_. Not like that at all. Absolutely the opposite.

Two stropping lads chilling and being dumb and definitely _not_ like a bloody date.

(Zayn wrinkles his face and feels like a wanker when he goes a bit stiff under Liam’s arm but he can’t help it.)

“This part is so mad, babe,” Liam giggles into Zayn’s cheek, his minty breath spilling over Zayn’s face, his nose nuzzling under his jaw.

Zayn narrows his eyes at the screen. He can focus on the film. On Gamora and Quill fighting over the orb.

On anything but how brilliant he feels with Liam’s arm snug around his shoulders and their ankles knocking when Zayn stretches out over the bed again.

(Except, he muses about the way they laugh simultaneously at Rocket and that lighthouse of affection in his chest when Liam threads his fingers into Zayn’s messy hair anytime Ronan speaks.)

Halfway through the film, with Liam mouthing most of the dialogue, their laughter still banked and echoing in their chests, Zayn loses interest.

No, wait ―

His focus settles on something else.

To be fair, he’s not sure when it begins but his eyes study Liam until he’s afraid to blink.

The waves of color from the screen move over Liam’s face like moon beams. Zayn likes the laughter lines around Liam’s mouth, the sharply clever angle of his jaw. His ears are always a bit pink when he laughs too hard. There’s soft wrinkles in his brow and a constellation of freckles over the bridge of his nose.

He’s feeding himself strings of red licorice, chewing away, drawing it in like spaghetti. Crinkles deepening around his eyes at everything Rocket mouths off, a laugh rattling in his throat.

It’s the first time (or third or fifth, bloody _eleventh_ ) he’s noticed all of these little details about Liam.

(and it’s the first time he notices how it makes his heart jump a little because he’s so fond of every little feature that makes Liam)

Liam’s brow wrinkles and he cocks his head to look at Zayn. “What?”

Zayn sucks in a sharp breath, the flush under his skin heating him up.

“Hmm?”

Liam laughs nervously. “Have you gotten bored of me already Zaynie?”

Zayn swallows, tipping his head back. His lips curl up slightly.

“Wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say then, mate?” Liam asks, half-giggling, tearing off another bit of licorice.

Zayn shrugs, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Liam repeats, crinkling his eyebrows. “That means I must be boring. A total knob, right? Stupid me.”

An exhale that turns into a breathy laugh slides past Zayn’s lips before he nudges in, angling his head. It’s probably the dopamine pumping into his heart that starts up the momentum but, for once, Zayn doesn’t fight it.

He goes with it, kicking hesitation to the curb.

“Not boring,” he insists, his lips dragging dry over Liam’s throat.

His tongue flicks out to wet them and it starts like a shiver through Liam that turns into an achy whimper down in his throat. Zayn smiles around it, fluttering his eyes shut. He presses tepid kisses down the line of Liam’s neck and giggles when Liam’s stubble tickles his mouth.

“Not boring,” he repeats, biting under Liam’s jaw.

Liam hums, shaking.

“Far from boring,” Zayn adds, deeper, pressing an openmouthed kiss over Liam’s tendons. “Couldn’t be boring.”

“Because?” Liam whimpers.

Zayn snorts, nuzzling his nose to a soft pink bruise his teeth create.

“Cause you’re me best mate and that’s all.”

Its dumb reasoning but Zayn doesn’t care. He knocks Liam’s laptop away, ignoring the wounded noise Liam makes when it thumps over the bed. Zayn shifts over and into Liam’s lap, crawling between his legs. He grins blissfully when Liam spreads his thighs while Zayn mouths his way over Liam’s collarbone.

This is supposed to be ―

(no, because it’s not planned and Zayn has no idea what he’s doing but it’s happening)

― a bit more thought out. Romantic, even.

Or something that feels slightly less rushed but Zayn’s burning off adrenaline and all of this need under his skin is clawing its way out so he pulls and tugs until Liam helps him out.

Their shaking hands shove Liam’s shirt up and push down his cotton bottoms. Liam shakily lifts his hips and Zayn yanks at his pants until everything is rumpled around Liam’s ankles.

“Sick,” Zayn smiles, unconsciously flicking his tongue over his lips.

Liam’s cock sits fat and leaking over his belly, curving up. It’s flushed red, pulsing out precome. There’s thick hair scattered all over, unruly curls at the base of Liam’s dick, a constant tremble rippling up his thighs. His stomach rises and falls on stuttered breaths and this is all so mad.

But Zayn likes the heat in his blood, likes the electricity in his bones.

“Zayn ― “

It comes out like a warning but Zayn drags his tongue over his lips again, shaking his head.

“S’cool,” he mumbles, carefully wrapping a hand around the base, angling Liam’s dick. “Just don’t think about it, alright?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply or for Liam’s breaths to even out. Zayn settles onto his knees, curving his spine, parting his lips to smooth around the sticky head.

The first flick is languid, the taste is tart and sugary at once. Slick precome sticks to the tip of Zayn’s tongue before he loosely wraps his lips around the crown. He inhales deeply, fascinated by Liam’s scent. His eyes blink open, for a moment, a hand smoothing over Liam’s belly while it hollows out before expanding.

His thumb rubs over the soft hair traveling from the lip of Liam’s navel, lower. He fits his lips over his teeth and eases down, slowly. So bloody slow.

Liam jolts a little but he keeps his hips steady. Zayn smiles weakly around the shaft, pressing a hand to Liam’s waist. His fingers find the grooves between muscle and skin and bone. It’s completely enthralling ― the bare spaces on Liam he’s never truly noticed.

“Fuck.”

Zayn likes the change in Liam’s voice, the raspy roll of it. He keeps sinking lower, drawing back to lick around the tip. Fingers curl loosely around his dick, spit and precome slipping between them.

He hums gently, easing back down. He knows he’s brilliant at this ― sucking cock. Leaving a lad shaking afterwards. Using his tongue like a weapon and his lips like an anecdote. Going from fast and messy to deliberately slow and teasing.

Zayn feels so proficient like this but it feels overwhelming with Liam.

There’s white noise in his ears, a soft combination of the film and Liam’s half-moans and his own breathing. His tongue is heavy with precome and he keeps hollowing out his throat when Liam lifts his hips just a little.

Just testing, easing a foot into cold water.

Zayn pulls back with a ragged breath, shuddering. “Getting deep.”

Liam muffles a noise into his knuckles, white teeth biting the skin around his hand pink.

Zayn cocks an eyebrow, exhaling hot breaths around the wet head of Liam’s dick. He drags the back of his hand over his mouth, clearing off the shiny spit and precome.

“C’mon, Liam,” he pants, his bottom lip catching over the foreskin, “get louder for me. Unless I’m shite at this ― “

“Fuck, no,” Liam whimpers, carefully curling a hand around the back of Zayn’s head.

He doesn’t apply too much pressure (not enough, Zayn thinks) but his wide eyes are begging and Zayn’s lips cock into a clever smirk before he follows the gentle momentum of Liam’s hand.

The head nudges at his throat and Zayn responds kindly ― opening up, gagging for a solid second before taking Liam in.

“Fuckin’ hell, Zayn,” Liam hisses.

His knees draw up, boxing in Zayn’s shoulders, and his hips lift to ease in and out of Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn relaxes, curving a hand around Liam’s hipbone, his eyelashes batting at thin tears. He feels Liam’s hesitation and gives his skin a sharp pinch like _‘c’mon you know you want to and I’m ready’_ before a sharp hitch rattles in Liam’s voice.

“Yeah?”

Zayn slurps obscenely when he pulls off, his voice rough and scratchy when he mumbles, “Yeah, babe. Just, like. Careful. Haven’t done this bit in ages.”

Liam tips back against the headboard giggling, his skin already flushed a deep cherry. He huffs out a quick breath and Zayn swats his thigh before guiding Liam’s dick between his lips again.

His tongue traces the sensitive veins on the underside before Liam nudges back into his throat. Zayn follows the roll of Liam’s hips and breathes rapidly through his nose. He gives Liam’s hip a soft, encouraging squeeze.

“Fuck, babe.”

All of Liam’s muscles tremble under Zayn’s curious hand. He can feel it under his palm ― Liam’s close.

The static in his head and ears disappears under the husk of Liam’s moans. He’s filthy with his tongue, a stutter of _‘Zayn oh fuck your mouth right there you’ve got me so wet’_ that Zayn clings to.

(he buries the sound of Liam’s voice going pitchy and the whine he gives out when Zayn swallows for later on, when he needs a good wank to edge off all this tension)

Liam whimpers, dragging his fingers through Zayn’s hair.

An experimental tug, like Liam wants to see if he has control, and Zayn follows it.

His lips pops off the tip and he sighs impatiently until Liam leads his head back down.

“Good lad,” Liam says, deep, dark, his accent thicker.

Zayn’s smile stretches with the thick shaft between his lips and he tongues the foreskin back to wet the sensitive head.

It doesn’t take much after that ― Zayn hollowing his cheeks, using his teeth to scrape under the crown, tightening his fingers around the base.

Liam comes with a strained moan, his muscles snapping like chords on an old guitar. He keeps a hand low on Zayn’s skull and floods Zayn’s mouth with a gentle apology like it’s an accident.

(like Zayn isn’t craving the thick taste of Liam’s come and the way it feels warm over his tongue)

Zayn rests his forehead in the hollow of Liam’s stomach. There’s sweat crawling down the nape of his neck, his hand messy with excess come. His own dick presses uncomfortably over the front of his joggers, twisted in the fabric, pleading for a touch.

But Zayn feels so lightheaded. He feels high and incredible.

Liam’s fingers lazily move through his hair until Zayn drags the back of his wrist over his mouth, clearing off the come. He eases his head away, crawling off the bed, staring down at his feet rather than at Liam splayed out across the mattress like a dazed starfish.

“Well, um, bugger.”

“Zayn?”

Absently, Zayn pushes down his cock, the cotton of his joggers stained dark from precome. He gives a one-shouldered shrug, still not looking at Liam.

He just ― he’s not embarrassed or sheepish about it all.

He just can’t look at Liam, that’s all.

 

//

 

Later, with a toothbrush (probably his, but it might be Liam’s) stuffed into his cheek and his mouth foamy from the paste, Zayn glares at himself in the mirror.

He splays his hands over the basin and watches all of the pinkish blush start to fade. Wrecked hair stands up at all angles. There’s thoughtful wrinkles in his brow. He can still taste Liam at the back of his throat (sugary where it should be tart) and he muses it’s all a bit coincidental when Liam nudges open the en suite door.

Zayn wriggles his eyebrows like _‘what’s up?’_ because there’s something else there. Something awkward, uncomfortable.

(Two things he and Liam have never been ― )

Liam eases around, shrugging. There’s an absent confusion creating wrinkles around his face.

Zayn shrugs mechanically, spitting into the sink, cutting on the tap. He feels Liam wince next to him and ―

 _Oh_.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rinsing out his mouth. “Not, like, you didn’t taste _horrible_ or anything. It’s just ― “

“Weird?” Liam offers.

Zayn scrunches his nose, shaking his head. “Nah, not like that,” he stutters.

“Like?”

Zayn’s face crumples thoughtfully. He can’t quite pick a word from the dozens roaming through his head. He bites a corner of his lower lip, tilting his head.

“It’s just not, Li.”

Liam smiles bashfully in the reflection before lifting his hand to rub his fingers under Zayn’s chin. A reflex, maybe, but it feels like it always does.

Like words are just some unnecessary waste of space between them.

“It’s not,” Liam repeats, softly, craning around until he’s crowded between the counter and Zayn.

It’s silly, honestly, the way Liam kisses him. It’s a peck and then a soft brush of lips and then nothing. The kind of kiss they’ve probably given each other a million times before ― the playful kind. Like a _’thank you’_ or _‘cheer up mate’_ and it’s always followed by a punch or a laugh.

But Liam softens a smile to his lips, freckles of blush over his cheeks, those goofy eyes getting small with delight.

“It’s not,” he echoes, slipping away from Zayn, bare feet padding over the floor as he walks out.

Zayn blinks at himself in the mirror for too long. His fingers, involuntarily he tells himself, brush over his lips. They chase the feeling of Liam’s kiss until ―

He smiles stupidly at his reflection, shaking his head.

Two geeky best mates navigating the world without direction or a purpose for a few more weeks.

 

//

 

Liam is fast asleep with his head tipped onto Zayn’s shoulder.

His soft breathing matches the hum of the train, his body curled uncomfortably small in his chair. He’s been dozing in and out for an hour, shaking awake for a few seconds, mumbling something before snuffling back onto Zayn’s shoulder.

The afternoon sun spills into the cabin of the train, striking everything gold. It spreads a winged glow over Zayn’s sketchbook as he thumbs through the pages, scanning over his latest pieces. A crooked smile knocks over his mouth when he feels a damp spot on his shirt.

Liam is drooling on him. Again.

He nudges his clean shaven chin to Liam’s forehead, holding a laugh in his chest while Liam whines and wriggles in his seat.

“Alright, alright,” Zayn whispers, still grinning.

His long fingers squeeze at Liam’s thigh, calming him, settling him down again like a newborn pup.

(It’s tragically amusing and something Zayn’s barely gotten used to ― how his little touches soothed Liam too.)

A shadow kicks the sun out of Zayn’s vision, a muffled giggle drawing his attention. He lifts his head a little, feeling Liam shift closer. His teeth gnaw over his lip while Jesy, with her big eyes and soft curves, lips quirked into a cheeky grin, stands in the aisle over them.

Zayn sucks in his bottom lip, lowering his eyebrows. She’s in one of his art classes, he knows. Always in the back row, popping her favorite spearmint gum, humming Emil Sande tunes while doodling roses all over her sketchbook.

(and he thinks they had coffee, once, with a bunch of pretentious art hipsters that Zayn wasn’t fond of ― ones Jesy might’ve made a few fucking brilliant jokes about afterwards)

“ _So_ ,” she says, wriggling her eyebrows and chewing her gum, “how long have you two been a thing?”

Zayn glances at Liam briefly, his brow crinkling. There’s no definition behind the looks Jesy gives them and he feels confused.

He cocks his head to the side, humming. “Thing?”

Jesy clears her throat, giggling. She gives him an indefinite nod like he should get it.

(like he gets _anything_ anymore but he doesn’t and Doniya would be proud of him for at least admitting that much)

“He’s been me best mate most of my life,” Zayn replies, his voice unsure and cracking. Something massive expands in his throat when she arches an eyebrow. “Met him at McDonald’s when we were, like, children. Arguing over chicken nuggets.”

“Bless. That’s cute,” Jesy grins. She leans down, lowering her voice. “But how long have you two,” she motions a finger back and forth between them, “y’know? How long have you been shagging about?”

The train is not loud enough to disguise the raw breath Zayn inhales. His chest tightens around the clap of his heartbeat. He feels something almost protective surge through him ―

(the way he gets when people take the piss at Liam or joke about his accent or whisper about his weight, his hair, the way he dances about campus to whatever’s playing in his headphones)

― and his scowl is instant when Jesy leans back.

“We’re not ― it’s not like that,” he scolds, keeping his voice low while Liam sleeps. “He’s just ― “

The words tangle like they’re caught in a net. They lose translation on his tongue and his stupid heart won’t be quiet.

“He’s important t’ me, s’all. He’s _Liam_. Batman,” Zayn huffs, lowering his eyes. Softer, under his breath, he adds, “And ‘m Robin.”

Jesy sniffs, sighs in annoyance before muttering a stiff _‘I s’ppose’_ as she walks off.

There’s something cold in the middle of Zayn’s chest as the train shifts and purrs over the tracks. He hates her words and that inescapable feeling in his gut.

The one where maybe he’s oblivious and she’s right and Doniya’s right too.

(Where he’s just some daft asshole who never got all the jokes Louis made or the times Niall teased him about buying extra copies of Iron Man just for Liam to read, too.)

He fixes a hard gaze on his hand, the one still on Liam’s thigh, smoothing over the denim of his jeans. _Defeated_. He feels defeated when he pulls his hand away. He feels like some stereotypical bloke being called out for absently flirting with his mate when it’s all banter.

It’s all just a good time, right?

But Liam sleepily shifts further into Zayn, dry lips rubbing at the side of Zayn’s neck. He hums and stutters out a breath, pressing all of his warmth to Zayn like he _needs_ it.

Like the curl of a wave going calm when it finally reaches the shore.

(And Zayn guiltily lets him because he’s a good sidekick. A proper best mate. He’s always been all Liam’s ever had and, well, Liam’s all Zayn’s ever had too.)

 

//

 

Zayn thinks Milan is remarkable.

The sky is made out of smashed crystals and all of the old buildings stretch high into the atmosphere like they’re touching the clouds. The streets are littered with people and it has that neon feel like the sun never fades.

“Smashing,” Liam grins, nudging him.

Zayn nods, this roll of excitement vibrating through his chest. The summer beats around them like luminescent streaks of light and Zayn wants to chase every road until it ends.

They spend a day exploring museums, Zayn lost on all of the da Vinci while Liam does his best to follow along with the tour guide. He keeps a map crinkled in his hands and a nervous smile on his lips when Zayn starts complimenting the artistry after every exhibit.

It sparks a laugh out of Zayn’s lungs, his arm curling around Liam’s hunched shoulders, dragging him to the modern pieces. He poses for Liam’s camera, tongue out, next to old sculptures and ruffles Liam’s hair between tours of the cathedrals nearby.

“It’s weird,” Liam mumbles. He keeps his voice low to avoid dirty glares from the professors, huddling close to Zayn.

Zayn bites at his smile. “Vas happenin’?”

Liam shrugs shyly. “Seeing inside your world. City after city, man. It’s always the same thing but ― it’s always so new when I watch you looking at stuff.”

Zayn tilts his head to admire Liam and all of his sheepish motions (cupping the back of his neck, dragging his feet over the ground, laughing softly) stand out here.

Blush speckles Liam’s cheeks when he adds, “It’s cool.”

“Cool,” Zayn repeats, nodding.

“Cool,” Liam affirms, ducking his head.

Zayn tugs haphazard fingers through Liam’s hair, rubbing at his scalp, leading him away from the crowd of other students on the tour.

“Geek,” he sighs, tucking the word between them like a secret. Like overflowing affection.

Like he can’t think of a single world to properly tell Liam how _happy_ he is like this.

Batman and Robin, mucking about Gotham City without a fucking care in the world.

They share chiacchieres dusted with sugar and tiny cups of espresso while overlooking a castle at the heart of town.

“Fucking mad, Zayn,” Liam whistles, cupping a hand over his brow to keep the sun out of his eyes.

Zayn snorts, nodding. “It’s crazy, man.”

There’s caffeine in his blood and sugar over his tongue and Liam’s goofy smile fits into his vision like one of those paintings in the museum. Some work of art he can’t interpret properly to anyone but himself.

All the soft lines and smudges of gold over his skin. He’s fucking _beautiful_ in the sun, Zayn swears.

“Imagine being king here,” Liam exhales, swiping the last of Zayn’s espresso.

Zayn gives him a short nod. “I’d be a duke.”

“An earl,” Liam laughs, poking a finger at Zayn’s shoulder, trying to trace Zayn’s skull tattoo through the cotton.

Zayn rolls his eyes but the absolutely daft smirk on his lips just won’t fade.

“Emir,” he whispers, a short burst of warm breeze swaying over their backs. “It means ― “

Liam clears his throat, tucking his chin to murmur, “It means _prince_ , right? In Arabic.”

There’s a small moment where Zayn thinks he’s not breathing. His lungs contract but refuse to release. He’s dizzy and disoriented until Liam fumbles out that dumbly nervous grin of his. He drags in his bottom lip with his teeth, finally inhaling.

“Yeah,” he exhales, his lips stretching into a crooked grin.

“And Malik means king,” Liam adds happily, shrugging, sounding like an offbeat tour guide.

“Correct.”

Liam snorts, his shoulders lifting and falling with his laugh.

“You’d be a sick _emir_ , Zaynie,” he says, cocking his head back to catch the flow of the sun across his face.

It blurs all the lines of his profile and Zayn thinks he looks a bit like a dream. He’s not high but he feels poetic and wordy and something else.

Something that doesn’t have a name attached to it so he hides it away until it does.

They waste away their afternoon in the gardens, strolling through all of the green and bright leaves with Zayn’s journal and Liam’s old Canon.

Liam is distracted snapping shots of the trees, the vines, adjusting his focus over and over. He lays down in the grass to grab a photo of the sky. He gnaws at his lower lip, concentrating, leaving it swollen and red like a ripe strawberry. He steals shots of a little girl chasing butterflies through the leaves and annoys Zayn by hovering over him while he’s splayed on a bench, trying to catch a kip in the sun.

“Piss off,” Zayn laughs, waving him away.

“Just smile, you donut,” Liam giggles, straddling Zayn’s chest, zooming in close.

“Bloody tit,” Zayn whines, turning his face away when the camera clicks repeatedly.

Liam huffs but reaches down to scrub a hand through Zayn’s flat hair. He pushes back the fringe and, with one hand, manages to snap off a picture of Zayn grinning, eyes closed, his head turned in profile. It’s like Zayn freezes like that ― Liam’s hand in his hair, all of his nerves calming, the sun waving over the side of his face with Liam sat gently on his chest.

“That’s gonna be sick when I develop it,” Liam sighs.

Zayn licks his tongue out over his lips, raising his eyebrows. “Can I get a copy?”

“Nope,” Liam giggles, scrambling off Zayn before he can punch him.

“Dick,” Zayn says under his breath, breathing the word up at the sun.

He finally sits up, feeling lightheaded and warm (from the sunshine and these endorphins in his heart) as he plucks a cigarette from his pack. He lights up, keeping the smoke close to his throat, watching Liam.

“Gonna make a documentary about all of this one day?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Liam singsongs.

Zayn exhales a breath of smoke and a choppy laugh.

“Gonna be my narrator?” Liam wonders, half-turning to beam at Zayn.

“Maybe,” Zayn echoes, biting over a corner of his lower lip.

Liam nods enthusiastically. He flips Zayn off, just because he can, before stumbling a few yards away for more pictures of the trees in this bright lighting.

Zayn thinks it’s so damn amusing ― the way Liam lights up like a dopey kid in each city. All of the ultraviolet light around him when he walks around with his camera, so captivated. Lost on all the beauty this world has but no one sees.

No one but Liam Payne.

He’s like that first breath of clear air after a long dream. Like waking from a coma.

And Zayn can’t help but stare at Liam each time with this crookedly fond smile ― like watching Batman finally take off his cowl.

 

//

 

**Milan ― 15:53 PM**

‘”I’m Batman.” _― my best mate to a bumblebee today._

_He’s an idiot._

_I hope he never goes away.’_

 

//

 

Jade invites them to a rave she hears about from a few locals over coffee during breakfast. It’s at the edge of the fashion district, a vacated building, some underground maze of rooms and a giant dance floor ― a sea of neon and swaying bodies and glitter shining in the air like rain drops.

Music rattles from the rafters, echoing like a clap of thunder through the massive space. The blitz of colorful spinning lights and shots from small plastic cups has Zayn dizzy and buzzed. He’s punch-drunk on the madness. The glow-in-the-dark bars and vintage tunes laid over dub beats. It’s a bit mental but he likes it.

He burns like a solar flare in the strobe lights and house music.

It’s like standing in the middle of a tsunami.

Zayn lifts a tiny glass of something strong and sour, downing it without wincing. It slides like fire down his throat but he barely notices the flavor.

He’s been watching Liam for ages and, unintentionally, he’s been unable to look away.

The way Liam’s been shuffling goofily on the dance floor, swaying his shoulders, rolling his hips to the pulsing rhythm. Giggling and lost somewhere between the electric glow sticks and two pretty local girls. His head always tipped back for one of those laughs that creates warm wrinkles around his eyes. Letting their hands grab at his muscles, his hair, loosening the buttons of his checker-print shirt to expose his tan skin ―

Pressing to him like the rolling waves of an ocean during a storm. Fingers tracing over his birthmark, his collarbones, into his shirt.

Bloody hell.

This fire in the pit of Zayn’s belly he doesn’t have a definition for keeps burning brighter.

(It makes him think of that one Nick Jonas tune and all the jokes Louis’ ever made about Zayn being _overprotective_ and how fucking _fit_ Liam’s become over the years)

“Fancy another?”

It’s the first time Zayn’s heard anything over the music and the outrageous echo of noise in his head

(the _‘leave it alone he’s your best mate what the fuck Malik?_ ’ he can’t get rid of)

but Zayn turns his head just enough to look at Zoe slinking into view.

She’s gone for some sick black and red dress, tight around her svelte body, her hair done up in an intentionally messy style. Scarlet lips and dark shadows around her eyes, an eyebrow cocked up at him.

Zayn raises matching eyebrows, confused.

Zoe giggles in that way that makes Zayn think of girls trying too hard, or the ones attempting to seem aloof when he reckons she’s a bit more ―

Well, practiced. _Clever_ seems appropriate.

“Your drink, mate,” she laughs, scooting in enough to tap at Zayn’s empty glass and keep her voice above the music. “Something to fill it up, then? Or d’you fancy something else to stimulate you?”

“Such as?” Zayn asks, but he’s already picked up on the hum of her voice.

“Could do you for a nice time,” Zoe offers.

Zayn sucks in a quiet breath, tilting his head to look past her for a moment.

Liam’s still pressed between the girls, buzzing and giggling, so bloody daft to the way they keep teasing at the band of his low-slung jeans.

“Not a drink, then?”

Zayn bites harshly on his lower lip, drawing back. He lifts his glass, shrugging. “Think I’ve had enough, haven’t I?”

Zoe rolls her eyes, looking a tad impatient. She lifts her chest some, bits of her hair falling loose and into her eyes. A proper seductress, Zayn thinks, if not a tad overdramatic about it.

“Maybe you just haven’t had what you want?” she suggests.

Zayn laughs. A fully-belly noise, eyes squinting shut from the pressure of his cheeks.

He’s not nearly had anything that he _wants_ in a long while. Not since ―

His eyes drag past her, out of habit, to Liam kindly dragging a pair of hands to his shoulders rather than his hips, leaning back into some girl with caramel skin and hair like fresh dark ink.

“It’s obvious,” Zoe huffs, tutting at Zayn.

He pulls back, ignoring the flush in his cheeks. That’s the alcohol. Nothing but the sour, cheap whiskey he’s been downing like water.

“What?” he asks, his voice choked like he’s been caught.

Zoe smirks, leaning in, casually trying to shift her fingers into his hair. Instinctively, he ducks away.

“You’re in love with him.”

Zayn scowls immediately. The words sting. He plops his empty glass on the island of the bar, crossing his arms to make a point. A frustrated little _‘fuck off’_ with the pout of his lips and the sharp line of his shoulders.

“M’not,” he insists. Something burns into thick fumes in his chest, a little stitch of guilt in there. “I mean, I love him, yeah. He’s me best mate but ― “

(this feels familiar, a bit rehearsed, like he’s said it a dozen times now to himself)

“ ― _not like that_.”

(those dreadful three words he’s starting to fear a little more than the ones he’s used to reciting to his mum or his sisters or even Liam in some dumb moment of appreciation)

Zoe flicks up a challenging eyebrow. Her smile turns haughty, placating before she says, “Prove it.”

Zayn gnaws at his bottom lip and Zoe shifts closer. She lifts her chest, making them look pert. Her tongue brushes over the sticky red of her lipstick, the corners of her mouth already lifting into a smirk.

He inhales quickly. He knows a proper dare when it’s in front of him. A chance to prove himself.

And he’s so sick of everyone watching him and Liam. All of their little whispers and the questions. Even Andy, taking the piss at Liam whenever Zayn’s around. It’s like being sixteen again, when Liam was being bullied for, well, _being Liam_ and Zayn was just some loner in the back of the classroom trying to stay unnoticed.

The little glances in the hallways when they walked shoulder to shoulder and ―

Zayn slides a warm hand over the slight curve of her hip. She smells like cherry blossoms and highball vodka. Her fingers tuck the loose strands of hair behind her ear while his fingers pull at her just enough for her to stumble flush up against him.

There’s no real charm about the way he kisses her. Not a speck of class. Just heat and the filthy brush of his tongue to the seam of her lips. She tastes like watermelon gloss. He doesn’t fancy it at all.

Zoe kisses with this petite aggression Zayn’s not used to. She bites at his lower lip, scratches small nails over the nape of his neck. Her breasts press into his chest like an offer for more. Zayn’s hands stay by his side, curled into fists, his mouth trying to keep up with the twist of her tongue.

She pulls off with a squeaky laugh, a hand pressed to his chest.

“Yeah,” she grins, stumbling back. “You snog like you’re in love with someone else, mate. Absolute rubbish.”

Zayn lowers his brow, his mouth clicking open but the words don’t come.

She shrugs sweetly, giving him one of those put upon waves, turning away and slipping into the heart of the crowd.

He feels the wind knocked out of him. Completely gutted for a moment. There’s not enough alcohol in his system and he orders up twin shots of spicy dark rum for the fuck of it.

For the way he hopes it’ll calm him down.

He knocks them back, one after the other, trying to numb it all. His thoughts. The music in his ears. The laughter in his head because he’s a pathetic joke.

Zoe is right ― absolute rubbish. Fucking mental.

Zayn stomps off into the crowd once he feels the heat down in his belly, the light in his chest. It’s all shadows and waves of hyperactive light so he can’t focus. He likes that.

He leans into the first available body, feeling fearless. Nonchalant. Casual cool and hammered. He just needs someone to dance this heat off with.

Some stranger.

Anyone but Liam.

(and all he thinks of for four songs is _‘you’re not my best mate’_ until he’s calm enough to sneak out back for a ciggy and a view of Milan from an alley, hoping Liam never finds him)

 

//

 

Later, when he’s scrubbed the scummy taste of whiskey from his teeth and he’s too knackered to think as much ―

Zayn lies in his cold bed, over the sheets, with his head propped on his forearm. He watches Liam fumble clumsily out of his clothes, fighting against his shirt like he’s trying to escape a straightjacket and stubbing a toe when he can’t quite slide out of his jeans properly.

It’s all obnoxiously endearing and Zayn sighs quietly, mumbling, “Li?”

Liam peeks from the shadows, all the lights in their room cut off, casting greys and blues all over.

The curious raise of an eyebrow makes Zayn anxious, overheated. His teeth rip nervously at his bottom lip before he lets out a long exhale.

“Can you, like,” he pauses, pouting. He wiggles his toes, tries to smooth out the wild syncopation of his heart. “Fancy a cuddle for a bit?”

He’s half-expecting Liam to take the piss or laugh wildly at him. Or maybe Liam’s just as knackered and doesn’t want to chat at all.

Instead, Liam flashes him that same goofy, contagious smile he always wears for Zayn. Just for Zayn. He toes off his socks and snaps the waistband of his pants playfully before shuffling over, kneeing into Zayn’s bed.

And it’s just that simple. Just Liam crowding around Zayn with sleepy eyes, a half-drunk smile, warm arms pulling Zayn in.

Honestly, it’s so _easy_.

Like being kids, making forts out of sheets and weekend sleepovers and telling each other secrets over flashlights and giggles.

Liam snores rhythmically, curled around Zayn like one of those koalas or sommat. His chin rests on top of Zayn’s head, soft fingers fitting between the grooves of Zayn’s spine.

“Li?” Zayn whispers.

There’s a beat of nothing. Soft, even breaths but Liam doesn’t respond.

“Have you ever been so in ― “

He can’t get the last word out. It catches on his tonsils, swallowed down. Burning up in the acid of his stomach. Just that one little word he’s attached to so many other things in life but with Liam ―

Zayn thinks he’s too drunk. Or he’s too braindead. Fuck. He thinks too much.

Instead of fitting that one little word to his lips, Zayn sighs over Liam’s neck, dry lips rubbing over Liam’s birthmark. He fits himself into this warm shelter of his best mate surrounding him and tries to sleep it off.

“G’night Batman.”

 

//

 

He hates missing out on important hours of sleep but Zayn rather fancies the way the sky looks like a floating iceberg at this time of the morning.

That peaceful puff of white clouds in a giant ocean of blue just above Milan.

Zayn is sat by the open window, his skin still warm from sleep, the early breeze skimming over his bare chest. He knocks the ash off his morning cigarette, takes a healthy sip from his tiny cup of espresso. His knees keep his sketchpad balanced in his lap.

The world keeps turning brand new outside and he can only think of his sisters. Maybe sketching Waliyha’s cheeky smile when she’s keeping a secret or Safaa’s huge lilac eyes.

He sighs and takes another puff off his cigarette. He misses them. He misses home. It’s always been that way but, so far from London, it feels amplified for a brief second.

There’s a quiet, familiar humming and then the click-whir from a camera distracts him from his thoughts. His lips cock up automatically, just a little, before he twists enough to drag his eyes over Liam.

He’s leaning in the doorway of the bathroom, droplets of water from his shower still beading down his skin. There’s a towel knotted around his waist and nothing else. His hair a spill of burnt gold, starting to curl at the ends like he’s seventeen again.

Zayn blinks sleepily at him, swallowing.

(because it’s _Liam in a towel_ ― just a towel; arse-naked underneath)

Liam looks a bit anxious for a moment. Fidgeting, turning the vintage Nikon between his hands, over and over.

“Vas happenin’ babe?” Zayn says, a scratchy voice from the lack of sleep still evident.

Liam’s mouth slides crookedly into a grin. “Just wanted to, like. This is you. The _real_ you.”

Zayn tilts his head, curiously. “Not an illusion. Don’t reckon I am.”

Liam exhales, his shoulders pulling up like he’s nervous. Shy.

Zayn takes a pull off his cigarette, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth, waiting.

“Ten years from now, this’ll be you. You won’t be anything but Zayn,” Liam mumbles, pushing his damp hair off his forehead. Quieter, he adds, “My Zayn.”

His skin colors a soft red and Zayn swears it’s from the heat of the summer.

“Don’t want to forget it,” Liam offers, holding up the camera like it’s meant to fill in the rest.

Zayn grins. He gets it. Honestly, he just ― he gets all of it. Liam’s photographs, Zayn’s journal ― their little way of keeping these memories alive and kicking.

He snubs out his cigarette in the windowsill and jerks his head at Liam like he’s trying to say _‘c’mere you idiot’_ without moving his lips.

Liam (the foolish bastard) stumbles over, dragging his feet on the carpet. He fits himself next to Zayn, shoulder to shoulder, two vigilantes waiting to fight crime. He knocks his head onto Zayn’s shoulder, exhaling, and he smells like home.

Like Zayn’s mum’s kitchen or his old bedroom. Like a safe place.

Zayn goes over all the ideas he has for new sketches and Liam listens with a wide, dumb smile on his lips. He offers his own thoughts, like he always does, with this shy voice until Zayn encourages him and, for a moment, this little hotel room in the middle of Milan feels like London.

Zayn loves that.

 

//

 

**Train to Venice ― 11:29 AM**

_‘I heard a tune the other day and I kind of loved this:_

“we are only dreaming and I’m dreaming only of you.”

_~~I LOVE him.~~ He means a lot to me._

_He’s my Bruce Wayne._

_I can’t stop thinking about him.’_

 

//

 

“M’not getting in there, bro.”

Zayn huffs a breath, scowling down at the waiting gondola and the dark waters of the Grand Canal. He thinks they look cruel, even if there’s barely a shift in the surface, tepid waves.

It’s fucking horrible and he looks away, glaring at Liam.

“C’mon, babe,” Liam laughs, leaning a little too far over to look at the water. Zayn nearly panics, something hitching in his heart.

“It’ll be sick.”

“No, it won’t,” Zayn pouts.

“C’mon now,” Liam beams, teasing his fingers under Zayn’s chin, across his jaw like he always does.

It’s half-convincing until Zayn sees the gondola rock and ebb on the water.

“No, thanks,” Zayn hisses, stepping aside when a couple of giggling classmates scurry up. He shifts away, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, sucking in a deep breath as they’re helped down into the gondola.

He watches it shove off without the slightest bit of guilt. Liam groans next to him but Zayn ignores it.

“You’ll do fine,” Liam insists, rubbing a comforting hand over the small of Zayn’s back when another gondola floats up to the dock.

“I’ll drown,” Zayn frowns.

“I’ll rescue you like Aquaman,” Liam smiles, those soft crinkles forming around his eyes.

“Then you’ll drown too,” Zayn grunts.

He narrows his eyes at the gondolier, who seems to be checking his watch every five seconds, impatiently tapping his foot. Zayn bites along his lip to keep the _‘fuck off you can leave now’_ from passing his teeth. He’s mental but he’s not fucking mad, alright?

“Hey,” Liam says, his voice gone soft. He wraps strong fingers around Zayn’s wrist, blindly finding Zayn’s pulse point. He keeps a finger there, rubbing over the skin like anesthesia. “I’m Batman, remember? I’ve got you.”

It shouldn’t be so simple. There should be some sort of cure for the way Liam can level Zayn with a look. All of his beliefs and his fears shouldn’t just melt off because of one stupid friend. Zayn should have a stronger will. A better resolve.

He should be able to bloody walk away from Liam and the damn boat without feeling an inch of regret.

But Zayn sighs and nods slowly.

He lets Liam lead him down into the boat (declining any help from the gondolier because he’s a fucking tit and Zayn shoots him a healthy scowl for it), feeling alarmed when it rocks from side to side while they settle.

“Fuck,” he hisses, gripping the sides.

“S’alright,” Liam says, banking a laugh under his breath.

Zayn still punches his shoulder but on principle alone.

Liam settles in next to him, trying to wink (and failing, of course) at Zayn to soothe him. Zayn hauls in a sharp breath when the gondola shifts away from the docks and stares down at his feet rather than the water.

“Okay?”

“We’re gonna die,” Zayn whispers.

“Least I’ll be right next to you,” Liam says, keeping his voice low like Zayn’s. “No place I’d rather be,” he adds in a falsetto that’s shrill and off-key but ―

Zayn feels a laugh tickle up his throat. He feels his shoulders loosen and his breathing relaxes.

The water stays calm and gentle as the boat drifts. The sun hides behind the striking architecture of the buildings. It’s like the city is floating on the canal. It’s quite the sight, he’ll admit.

He swears Liam’s a daft asshole because he fakes a yawn, stretching widely to throw an arm around Zayn’s shoulders. Zayn elbows him, hiding his smile.

“Quit taking the piss, mate,” he smirks, looking up through his eyelashes.

For a second, with the sun almost out of view, he swears Liam looks wounded. Defeated. It’s brief and maybe Zayn imagines it because those soft lips twitch out a grin like it never happened.

A bloody mirage.

“Reckon I could be the Joker for that fancy dress party me sisters throw in October,” Liam proposes, keeping his arm around Zayn’s shoulders.

He appreciates that, honestly. It feels like ― he doesn’t have a word.

Zayn is certain it’s something he shouldn’t attach to Liam.

“Could do well with that,” Zayn shrugs, sucking on his bottom lip.

Liam nods happily, his cheeks pushing at his eyes.

“Or Iron Man?” Zayn offers.

Liam shakes his head, grinning. “You’re more Tony Stark than me, mate.”

Zayn scoffs and shoots Liam an incredulous look. “That an insult?”

The boat tips just a little but Zayn barely notices because Liam’s fingers find their way into his hair, over his scalp.

“You’d smash it, man,” Liam replies, preening a little when Zayn smiles reflexively. “You’d be great at anything.”

“Jack Sparrow?” Zayn offers.

“Haven’t ya done it before?”

Zayn shrugs again, tilting into Liam when the boat lifts with a small wave. “Thinking Bucky Barnes?”

Liam hums appreciatively and, this time, Zayn is certain his cheeks are flooded a gross pink like those cheap grocery store flowers in February.

But, for once, he doesn’t care one bit. He feels loose and alive with Liam’s fingers in his hair and their stupid banter about superheroes as they drift down the canal.

A sunset in their background and their foreheads touching as they whisper, with huge goofy smiles, just loud enough that Zayn can’t hear all the water around them.

 

//

 

“Sorted y’self out yet Zayno?”

Zayn smiles into the camera of Liam’s laptop with sleep-heavy eyes and a hand aimlessly dragging through his bed-wrecked hair. His fingers snag on tangles as he yawns. He only winces a little.

“A bit,” he replies, watching the grainy image of Louis’ face on the screen.

He’d promised to Skype with Niall after he’d rung Zayn three times on the train to Rome whining about the _‘lack of Zayno and Nialler time, bro’_ like it was the end of the world.

(For Niall, Zayn’s certain it probably was but Niall’s always been a tad clingy)

He didn’t mean at half eight in the morning when his eyes were still droopy and he’d barely had time to brush his teeth. Not when Zayn wanted a lie-in (with a Liam, softly parted lips for easy breaths and the early sun bathing his cheek, to admire from across the room) before an art lecture. Before his first cigarette of the day and a cup of tea.

Still, he flashes Louis a cheap grin that he hopes Louis buys, hearing Niall’s booming laugh in the background.

“You’re insufferable, bro,” Niall calls.

Zayn lifts his eyebrows lazily, a subtle _‘fuck off’_ that’s accompanied by a lopsided grin.

“Typical, Malik,” Louis chastises. “Can’t sort shit out without me.”

Zayn snorts, pushing bits of fringe off his forehead. He feels the sleep weighing on his limbs, caving in his chest, this constant want to crawl back under all of the sheets pulling at all of his organs.

“I miss you, though, Zayno,” Niall whines, popping into the screen with shockingly bright blonde hair and those alive eyes Zayn appreciates on an aesthetic level.

“I don’t,” Louis huffs, shoving Niall off screen.

“That’s fair,” Zayn shrugs.

(he knows it’s Louis’ only way of showing his fondness ― with a clever tongue and loads of sass)

In the background, Zayn can hear the constant hum of _‘the tide is high but I’m holding on’_ and ― _Christ_. It’s too early. Too fucking early, he swears. But he grins when Niall shimmies around behind Louis, refusing to shut off his alarm even when Louis barks at him.

“Just like having Ni all to y’self, I figure,” Zayn sighs, smiling.

“Quite do,” Louis replies, a nonchalant lift of his shoulders like he’s hardly embarrassed about it all.

(and it’s such a juxtaposition to the Louis he remembers drunkenly snogging Niall that first time, at the end of term during some weekend bender after too much tequila)

(the bashful prick who crawled out of Niall’s lap with swollen lips and wouldn’t speak to him for a week afterwards)

Louis leans out of view for a moment, yelling, “Three sugars, you dolt! And don’t christen me tea with your gutless and uncultured cream!”

“Oi,” Niall hollers back and Zayn can’t knock this warm grin off his lips. “Ya just keep me ‘round t’ make your dreadful tea f’r ya.”

“That,” Louis smirks, unabashed, “and the incredible shagging.”

“Cheers,” Niall giggles.

Zayn rubs at his eyes, laughing under his breath. He still feels washed out and knackered but this small spike of adrenaline in his blood from Niall’s laugh and that clever smile Louis always wears keeps him from dozing off.

“The bloke is quite the fuck. Better than bloody porn,” Louis says to the camera like it’s a secret even though he’s hardly whispering.

“Gross.”

Louis gives him a wild smile, bright eyes and unruly fringe falling down into them.

“Could do without hearing what you two do while ‘m not there,” Zayn says.

“Or while you’re sleep,” Louis adds, unaffected when Zayn holds a middle finger up to the camera.

“That was one time!” Niall yelps.

Louis snorts, wriggling his eyebrows. “He’s brilliant, though. We’ve been doing loads of nothing, man. Watching shit telly programs. Ordering in. Naked Mario Kart. Perfect lazy assholes.”

“ _Naked Mario Kart_?” Zayn says, his voice going tight and strangled.

Louis nods with a huge smile. “We kick off our kits, except for our socks because Nialler is weird like that, and then we ― “

“Shut your fucking gob, ya menace,” Niall grins, nudging Louis over, both of their faces barely fitting into the screen.

Niall carefully passes Louis a cup of tea (in his favorite mug, the cheeky romantic) and Louis smacks a quick peck to Niall’s cheek like he’s trying to hide it from Zayn. He’s done a rather shit job of hiding any of this from Zayn but Zayn doesn’t quite have the heart to tell him. Or take the piss at him either.

(not yet, at least)

“How are things with Leeymo?” Niall asks, angling his head.

“Same,” Zayn shrugs, his teeth automatically pulling in his lower lip. “He’s still a geek ― “

“So are you,” Niall and Louis exhale in one breath, laughing.

“S’good, I guess. Proper nice having him around, hanging about with me,” Zayn says, eyes flitting towards the bathroom.

Liam snuck away before Zayn flipped open the laptop, smiling drowsily at Zayn as he stumbled into the loo, waving dopily like he still hasn’t adjusted to seeing Zayn every morning for the past few weeks.

Like all the other little bits they don’t discuss aren’t starting to pile up between them.

There’s a silence on the other side of the screen, like that rush of white noise in your ears when there’s nothing but the telly on. Louis and Niall trade carefully amused looks for a moment and Zayn feels his heart start up irregularly. He drags sweaty palms over his knees when Louis’ lips slide up insanely high on his face.

“You two are fucking,” he says, ingenuously. “I can tell, bro.”

Zayn swallows something thick, trying to school his features but Niall’s already barking a laugh in the background.

“Not shagging, you twat,” Zayn sighs. He chews at his lower lip until it aches. “We’re just, like.”

There isn’t an appropriate word on his tongue. An explanation. There’s not enough reasoning, even if he’s thought about this a hundred times now. Because Liam is just ―

Honestly, Liam is _Liam_. That’s it.

“Christ,” Louis hisses into the screen, crowding in too close until Zayn can only make out the blur of his wide blue eyes and the width of his cheeky grin. “Details, mate. I want bloody details. What’ve you done with him? Bet he’s properly worn you out by now. All that unrewarded love or whatever they call it.”

“Unrequited,” Niall offers and Louis exhales his annoyance.

“Right, brilliant. Cheers, Horan.”

Zayn can make out Liam’s humming from the other side of the loo’s door. All bright and happy like he always seems to be in the morning. Silly tunes he makes up, his voice echoing off the tiles. It’s a distraction ―

(a calming diversion, actually)

― and Zayn looks away from the laptop with a scrunched face.

“Is the head amazing? Has he bent you over ‘cause I’d think Payno would be a bit ― “

“Quit being a cunt,” Niall huffs, knocking Louis out of view.

Zayn flits his eyes over Niall’s face ― that cautiously warm expression he always flashes Zayn just before a _‘proper brotherly chat’_ because Niall’s fond of finding those little moments in the middle of chaos to be Zen. Some sort of peacemaker. A bloody _voice of reason_ like all of the pints and morning spliffs have suddenly made him wise.

“How d’ya feel Zayner?”

It’s a loaded question, Zayn knows. This pulse of lightning through his system. A neat ghost tucked in the corner of his mind. He should have an answer by now, chewing at his thumbnail, blinking at that endearing smile Niall shoots him but ―

Zayn doesn’t _know_ how he feels and that’s tragically fucked up.

(just another thing he’s been good at his whole life: being absolutely daft about love)

“Dunno, man,” he mutters, shoving the words together. He keeps his eyes low, on his shaking hands.

“Should just go with it,” Niall suggests, clearing his throat. Zayn looks up at him through his thick eyelashes. The bright edge of his smile is crooked, Niall adding, “Could be fantastic. A smashing good time, y’know?”

“Or,” Louis drags out, popping back into the screen, “you could completely muck up a friendship.”

Zayn exhales, wrinkling his nose. “Cheers, yeah, thanks Tommo.”

“Hey,” Louis shouts, knocking his knuckles over the camera until the screen is blurred and shaking, pulling in close again like it makes his voice clearer and his words sharper. “Don’t be daft and get too caught up in it. It’s Leeymo, ‘member? Could suck if things go bad.”

Zayn nods. He knows all of this, the acid in his gut reminding him constantly. It’s Liam. His best mate. He’s never done good imaging life without Liam, right there, knocked into his side like a proper sidekick.

Like a second pair of lungs.

And it’s terribly unpredictable, the click of a door opening, heavy feet padding wetly over the carpet, Liam hanging in the doorway with a towel knotted around his waist and water dripping all over. His lips poke out in that stubbornly addictive pout, like he’s a lost puppy.

Zayn blinks at him for a moment, avoiding the pink and gold of his skin, a thin line of soft fuzz at the center of his chest, those wide shoulders ―

“Can’t find me shampoo,” Liam whines, wet hair dripping slices of water down his face. “Did ya nick it from me in Milan?”

Zayn’s tongue flicks over his lips and he stares a little too long, half-turning towards Liam before ―

Niall wolf-whistles like a proper fraternity bloke, Louis howling in the background. They’re giggling like mad idiots, the laptop shifted enough that Liam’s in the lens.

“You fit fecker!” Niall shouts. “Fucking legend, Payno!”

“Drop the towel, Payner,” Louis adds, gasping through his laughs. “Wanna see the Hulk between ya legs, mate.”

Hot, painfully bright blush speckles over Zayn’s cheeks and Liam gasps, stumbling back into the bathroom. It’s with a thump and a smack, like he’s fallen on the tiles, and Zayn needs new flatmates.

(new friends and a new reason not to wonder if maybe he could’ve coaxed Liam out of that towel had it been just them)

“Fucking twats,” he sighs.

He can’t quite make out all of the noise through the laughter or Liam’s mumbled curses behind the door. He sort of just wants to smoke a quick ciggy and hop into a shower of his own, washing away all the things Louis and Niall have stuffed into his head.

(all the _Liam, Liam, Liam_ he’s fairly good at avoiding until now)

“You two are dreadful,” he adds, rolling his eyes when he finally makes out the _‘and you don’t know why but you’re dyin’ to try you wanna kiss the girl’_ they harmonize before he shuts the laptop.

A crooked smile slips over his mouth for a moment. He hates them, he swears. Two fucking idiot mates.

(the best kind, he thinks, licking at his grin)

He sits the laptop on the edge of Liam’s bed and pads towards the loo. He knocks open the door with his shoulder, the steam bathing him in this tickling mist. The scent of the room is that sharp tangy spearmint body wash Zayn uses, like Liam’s nicked it to scrub over his own skin.

And it’s funny. _Ironic_ , really. Because Zayn wants to crawl into one of Liam’s jumpers, until he drowns in the sleeves and is surrounded by Liam’s smell.

Liam’s humming again, something by Drake, and Zayn tenses his jaw before his mouth can shift into a smile.

“Leeyum,” he whines over the pound of the water.

He shuffles up close to the glass door, too much steam blurring everything behind it. He can see Liam’s silhouette, the way he freezes under the flood of water.

“Can’t find any inspiration for me bloody classes. S’ppose to have a project done by the end of the week,” he continues. He draws in the steam through his nose like the after burn of a cigarette. “All of my stuff is shite right now. ‘M fucked.”

“Even in this massively wicked city?” Liam calls out.

Zayn’s lips thicken into a half-smirk at the way Liam sounds garbled and loud in here. He leans on the wall, huffing. “I’m fucked, mate,” he repeats. “There’s no hope.”

The glass door slides open, a billow of steamy fog blinding Zayn for a second before a wet hand fists his shirt and drags him inside.

Liam crowds Zayn into a wall, the tile cold through the fabric of his shirt. His kit is soaked in seconds and his breaths squeeze out of his lungs rapidly. He’s so lost and dazed, hot water spilling down his face. Reflexively, his fingers pinch at Liam’s biceps until he can recover ―

Or try to.

He stares at Liam’s wet smile for a tad too long, forcing his eyes up, away from Liam’s chest and stomach and dick. It feels like a blindside, Liam’s smirk, because he’s unaware of how close Liam is until he ducks his head down and presses Zayn further into the wall.

Liam’s mouth draws shapes along Zayn’s neck. He giggles when his tongue brushes over Zayn’s stubble, down his throat. Across his collarbones. Messy red half-moons are left behind as he applies pressure. His tongue flicks the water from Zayn’s skin, slick trails left behind by his tongue.

It’s another distraction, Zayn recognizes that later, because Liam’s sure fingers are undoing Zayn’s bottoms. Wet, heavy cotton pulled away from his hips, shoved down to his thighs.

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut, lips parting for a soft _‘ah’_ when Liam grinds against him. He smacks a wet palm to the tiles, his other hand thoughtlessly dragging over the nice angles of Liam’s hip.

“What are you ― “

The words choke off in his throat, Liam still kissing a jagged line over his neck.

Liam hums over his skin, like a question (or a prayer), spreading his fingers over Zayn’s taut belly.

Zayn’s cock fattens up instantly, slick between their knocking hips. Grazing a sensitive line up Liam’s thick dick, all of his nerves like pricks of electricity.

“Li, what’re you ― “

He still can’t force the words out, disappointed. But he likes the way Liam’s big hands cradle his tiny hips, keeping him steady. He’s rooted to the floor where his socks squish from the water. His shirt sticks to his skin, shoved up just enough for Liam’s fingers to drag over that line of dark hair under the lip of his navel.

“Too tense,” Liam mumbles over another crimson bruise on Zayn’s skin.

Zayn’s spine goes iron stiff, canting his hips towards Liam when he puffs out a giggle over his wet skin.

“Chill,” Liam laughs.

Zayn thinks he’s a bloody, inconsiderate asshole.

“C’mon now,” Liam insists, sliding his thumb down that delicate space of skin between Zayn’s navel and the scratchy patch of hair around his dick. “Chill. Just lemme ― “

“Do what?”

It’s not meant to come out like a hiss, like a demand. It felt softer in his throat but Zayn can’t help himself. He’s _lost_ on this Liam, with the playful eyes and fatal hands, the one rutting his cock all over Zayn’s thigh.

He knocks their foreheads together, skimming his lips over Liam’s because he’s too shy to snog him.

Or too anxious of mucking this up, thanks Louis.

Liam grins and steals a kiss. It’s like a snakebite. Too fast, too lethal.

“Relax,” Liam commands, his voice hoarse but still teasing. Another kiss, wetter, a peek of tongue that retreats too quickly for Zayn. “Open your eyes.”

Zayn blinks rapidly, forty times he thinks, the water heavy on his lashes. He stares at Liam because he wants to. Because Liam’s words sound more like a plea rather than an order.

Like Liam’s adjusting to having control and rather liking it, the bloody wanker.

“And stay calm for me,” Liam adds, keeping their foreheads close.

There’s a hand at Zayn’s throat, slicking up, catching his jaw between thick fingers. Liam’s spare hand nudges between them, fingers curling around the root of Zayn’s cock. His thumb plays under the head, a ghostly touch.

They’re noisy with their breaths when Liam fits a firm grip around Zayn, stroking lazily. It’s a little uncoordinated, their bodies too close, but Liam makes it work. He makes Zayn believe in fucking _magic_ , the genius.

Zayn gasps, trying to tip his head back but Liam’s fingers grip his jaw. _Steady, steady, steady_ Zayn thinks, exhaling.

His eyes nearly blink shut but Liam flinches and Zayn refuses to agitate him. He widens his eyes and ( _fuck_ ) submits so willingly.

“Good lad,” Liam smiles, never shifting out of this cool, delicate voice.

Zayn whimpers, a chant of _‘Leeyum’_ under his tongue. His hips chase the feel of Liam’s hand, everything so slick and gorgeous under the shower. In this heat. His lungs filled with the steam.

“Such a good, good lad,” Liam mumbles, chewing on his lip, barely blinking.

He just keeps watching Zayn’s eyes and the way his tongue licks out occasionally over his already slick lips. The flash of Zayn’s teeth when he bites at the flesh of his lower lip. His jaw going tense like he’s holding back.

“C’n say somethin’, can’t ya?” Liam wonders, accent thick and honeyed.

Zayn coughs out a noise that’s maybe a _‘yes’_ but more like a whine. Like praise for the way Liam knows his body so well now. That firm stroke around Zayn’s shaft, teasing fingers over the tip, a thumb circling around the crown.

He sucks in a loud breath, his knees nearly giving out, slumping to the wall. Liam keeps his chin leveled, grinning madly.

“Watch me.”

Zayn moans, twisting, fucking his hips towards Liam’s hand.

“Watch me,” Liam repeats, firmer, still holding that smile over loose pink lips. “Look at me. Right here, Zayn, c’mon now.”

He blinks away the water but the burn in his belly blurs his vision. Yet, Zayn keeps his eyes on Liam. He groans and grunts like he’s run a race. Out of breath, shaking. He stares at Liam while biting the tip of his tongue.

“Now come f’r me,” Liam mumbles, dragging his mouth over Zayn’s in something like a kiss but it’s not. “Come for me. Be a good lad and come all over me.”

A quiet approval is what it is. All of Zayn’s nerves going numb and it’s all he needs. Just a hint of permission and Liam’s birthmark to crowd his mouth over, dull his booming moan in his chest as his stomach muscles contract violently and his come stripes Liam’s wrist, belly, the thick hair around his cock.

He drips between Liam’s fingers, whimpering, oversensitive. Zayn keeps pulsing in Liam’s palm and he wants to wade out the wave but it keeps coming. A rush. A fucking typhoon and his softening dick keeps blurting out thick come.

“That’s it,” Liam whispers into Zayn’s hairline. “Get it out, babe.”

A laugh tickles up Zayn’s throat. He’s probably _delirious_ , honestly. Strung out and gone over this boy, even if he won’t admit it here. Or in the middle of Rome.

Or anywhere.

He exhales a rough breath, pinned to the wall, his arse cold against the tile. Liam’s plump cock drags absently over Zayn’s belly, streaking precome over his skin and he swears he wishes he had the strength to wank Liam off.

Be a proper mate and help him relax too but ―

“Just wanna,” Liam mumbles, soft and cautious, like a question, “tell me if this is too much, alright?”

Zayn nods at nothing, fluttering his eyes shut. Liam noses behind his ear, mouth hot in the short hairs on the side of Zayn’s head before he feels it.

Two fingers, soaked in Zayn’s come, gently rubbing around Zayn’s hole while his spare hand keeps the cheeks spread.

Zayn swallows, keening. He steps onto the tips of his toes but relaxes like he’d give Liam anything right now. He nudges back onto Liam’s fingers, grinning when Liam breathes out a _‘shit look at you’_ before he’s clenching at the tips of Liam’s wet fingers.

It’s _filthy_ , he thinks. Properly kinky and he’d be a bastard to tease Liam so he knots his arms around Liam’s neck to stay close.

To breathe a quick _‘yeah Li open me up’_ to the shell of Liam’s ear while slick fingers stretch him out.

Liam frots against Zayn’s belly, rubbing himself off between them. Loud breaths covering up his moans. His fingers curl inside of Zayn, opening him further. It’s been too long but he doesn’t hiss at the stretch. He curls his mouth to that space between neck and shoulder and bites.

He fancies the achy groan Liam releases, carding fingers through Liam’s damp hair.

“Keep on,” he whispers. “C’mon, Li. So hard for it, right? Shit. Fucking me nut back into me. Such a good ― “

Liam falters, knocking them into the wall but Zayn doesn’t mind the dull ache at the back of his head while Liam’s thumb circles the rim of his hole. While his hips jerk erratically to spread his precome all over Zayn’s hips, across the blocky heart tattoo.

He hums gently to Liam’s ear, squeezing around Liam’s fingers. His spine arches like a tidy bow and Liam nuzzles at Zayn’s throat. His brow wrinkles up, mumbling, “I’m gonna ― “

“So deep with your fingers,” Zayn teases, breathily.

“M’gonna,” Liam huffs.

Zayn kisses a zigzag line over Liam’s hairline, sighing, “Might get me proper hard again. C’mon.”

“Gonna ― “

Zayn braces himself a bit. He keeps his arms loose around Liam’s neck, snuffling down to kiss at Liam’s mouth when he starts to pulse between them. It’s only a brush of lips, kisses halved because Liam has no coordination and Zayn’s too fascinated by the way he trembles.

But it’s still bloody fantastic ― all of Liam’s muscles quivering and his come dripping down Zayn’s belly. Fingers thrusting Zayn’s tacky come inside of him, leaking down the back of his thigh.

It’s weirdly intimate if Zayn thinks about it.

(He purposely doesn’t think about it for his own sanity.)

Liam breathes over Zayn’s shoulder, slumped against him, cheeks already turning pink.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

Zayn rolls his eyes, coughing out a laugh. “Shut up, geek.”

It’s heavy with affection Zayn can’t control. But he noses at Liam’s temple and ignores the harmless bite Liam sinks into his shoulder.

It’s just that easy and Zayn still doesn’t comprehend it all.

How they’re just two daft blokes under the cooling spray of a shower, in the middle of Rome, laughing off breaking all the fucking rules the world attaches to friendships.

“Clean up time?” Liam offers, pulling back. There’s lightning bolt crinkles around his eyes, cheeks lifted by his grin.

Zayn shrugs noncommittally, sighing. “Sure.”

They shuffle Zayn out of his drenched kit, pushing away cotton, peeling it off Zayn’s skin, leaving it in a pile on the floor near the drain.

“Better hurry,” Liam suggests, gently curling his arms around Zayn, leading him off the wall. “Getting cold.”

“So then we’re chillin’?” Zayn teases, a shit joke he’s certain no one else would find amusing but Liam ―

He jerks his head back, a belly-aching laugh lifted out his mouth, tightening his arms around Zayn to spin him under the showerhead. He giggles while scrubbing shampoo into Zayn’s hair and laughs all the way through Zayn washing the come off their bellies.

His snickers knock around in Zayn’s ears for hours afterwards and it’s almost as brilliant as listening to Liam hum all the time.

It’s a hint of inspiration, really.

After classes, Liam has a kip on the bed, sheets drawn down just over his bare hips. Naked and snoring into a pillow. His nose twitches every other breath and his hair is a fluffy swirl of butterscotch. The glint of faded sunlight smudges the room orange and Liam’s skin toffee.

Zayn sketches from the window, tries to get every wrinkle in the sheets, the slope of Liam’s nose. His relaxed eyebrows and pink mouth. He adds a grin for the fuck sake of it ―

(or because he can’t stop thinking about Liam’s laughter in his ears)

― and admires the drawing for awhile. It’s clean and messy at the same time. Probably the best piece Zayn’s done in days.

And that’s it, right?

Liam is a bit of inspiration in the middle of a beautiful city. The hint of caramel in your coffee that you never notice because you’re too busy admiring the cream at the top.

Zayn smirks and hides the sketch from Liam, even if he’s still kipping. He rips the sheet out, stuffs it into his duffle and reminds himself to pin it to his wall when he gets back to London.

 

//

 

Harry rings them up in the middle of the week and meets them on a stickily hot day in a haphazardly buttoned heart-print shirt, skinnies, and posh suede boots. Zayn sizes him up with a grin, his index finger pushing his glasses back to admire how much Harry is still very much, well, _Harry_.

“D’ya miss me?” Harry asks in that deep, lazy drawl he’s always had. Habitually, his hands push long curls out of his face instead of knotting on top of his head.

“Hardly,” Zayn snorts.

“Always,” Liam says, louder, knocking Zayn’s shoulder to admonish him.

Zayn grins wider, shrugging, huffing through the last of his ciggy.

Harry wriggles his eyebrows, sticking his tongue out at Zayn before yanking Liam in for one of those back-clapping, rough then warm hugs they enjoy. Proper sporty lads, Zayn thinks. Like brothers.

“Getting ya knickers bunched, I see then,” Harry teases, pinching at Zayn’s cheeks until he considers stubbing the cigarette out on Harry’s arm.

He sighs, rolling his eyes, scrunching his nose up with a laugh before diving into a hug. It feels longer, Harry’s arms like a safety blanket a child totes around.

(the kind of hug that reminds Zayn of being young and knocking about the bakery while Harry pretended to work)

“Alright, alright,” Harry says, his voice gone scratchy like usual. “Things to do, lads. Places to see. There’s nothing like Rome.”

“There’s London,” Zayn argues, finally flicking away his cigarette.

Harry pouts, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Again.

“And Gotham City,” Liam beams, cheeks pushing his eyes into little slits.

Harry groans, shaking his head, forcing himself to push his hair back once more. Fifth time, Zayn thinks, out loud with a laugh.

“ _Excuse you_ , Liam,” Harry drawls, hooking his arms around both of their necks, “that place doesn’t exist.”

Liam exhales stubbornly and Zayn bites over his grin. He’s learned ages ago never to argue Batman and _Toy Story_ with Liam. It never turns out good. Or harmless.

“How is modern art treating you?” Harry asks when Liam’s mouth clicks open, tilting his head to admire Zayn.

Zayn wrinkles his nose. “Art history.”

“Details, Malik, fuck,” Harry giggles, dimples pronounced like carved ripples in a current.

Zayn lifts his eyebrows lazily, sniffing. “About the same as anthropology probably is for you, Dr. Jones.”

“Dr. Jones,” Liam repeats with a wheezing giggle, his face tucked into Harry’s armpit but Zayn can still make out the soft lines around his eyes, the cherry of one cheek.

(the stutter of Liam’s breath that makes Zayn’s heart rattle out off beat)

“S’that a joke?” Harry wonders, cocking his chin up, talking to the cotton blue sky.

Zayn’s lips tilt crookedly, a sugary smile he can’t run from. “ _Indiana Jones_ , mate.”

Harry nods along, eyebrows knit tight, lips puckered and pouted. “Don’t get it.”

Liam jerks with a laugh that feels warm in Zayn’s belly and he sighs, pleased, mumbling, “Y’never do, Styles. Just give us the tour.”

 

//

 

Harry drags them to the Colosseum, explains all of the broken architecture in a slow, deep voice like a proper tour guide.

Zayn flashes him an impressed look while Liam shutters off a dozen pictures of everything. He props his old Nikon on a pedestal, shoves the three of them into the frame for one of those timed photos that probably looks cheesy and daft.

(and Zayn grins so hugely at Liam, at the one dimple in his cheek and crinkly brown eyes, the proud face he shoots Zayn from a million steps away)

They tour the Sistine Chapel for hours, Harry going on and on about the history to Liam while Zayn stands in the center of the building to admire the vaulted ceiling. There’s this itch of inspiration in his fingers, turning in circles to study all of Michelangelo’s lines, the pale colors. It’s all stunning in a way Zayn thinks only happens in films.

That breathless moment.

A reason to pull in a deep gasp of oxygen and just hold it until his lungs burn.

“Sick,” Liam says, behind him, curling an arm around Zayn’s belly.

Zayn hums a response. He tips his head back onto Liam’s shoulder for a better view.

(or for Liam’s breath on his cheek, the hymn of Liam’s swallowed gasp when Zayn smiles)

“Sick,” Zayn echoes.

Their breaths synchronize for minutes. This quiet _in, out_ rhythm that Zayn swears make this moment even grander. Unintentionally beautiful.

“Don’t wanna move,” Zayn admits, keeping his voice low, grinning up at the artwork.

“Could stay,” Liam offers, his fingers moving in cautious wide circles around Zayn’s stomach.

“Hmm?”

Liam grins, half unnoticeable from this angle, but it’s there.

His fingers keep turning in warm circles and Zayn keeps finding his breaths in time with Liam’s.

“Lads?” Harry hums, cheeky with his smirk when Liam twitches.

“Food?” Liam suggests, patting absently at Zayn’s stomach with his own hand.

Zayn sniffs and doesn’t make much of an effort to pull away from Liam. In retrospect, he’s certain it’s another moment in time that historians will never be able to fully explain.

 

//

 

There’s a nice café, the patio bathed in rich summer sun, neatly scripted menus and a whispering breeze that Harry nudges them towards. Crowded around a tiny table with glasses of wine and bowls of pasta, they drown in the quiet of the city while Liam finds little things to sneak pictures of.

Zayn takes a healthy drag off his cigarette, cocking his head back to blow the smoke away from them. “So,” he grins and Harry groans into his wine. “Had any chats with Tommo lately?”

Liam winces across the table, wrinkling his nose and brow.

Harry gives a mild attempt at a carefree shrug. Zayn can still follow the hints of tension in his muscles.

“Should’ve expected this?” Harry wonders, sighing.

Liam and Zayn nod together, smiling.

“Tossers,” Harry grins. He tips back in his chair, nearly falling out because Harry is nothing short of being a clumsy bastard.

“You don’t have to answer,” Liam offers.

Zayn quickly flicks ash at Liam, pouting. “You _do_.”

Liam rolls his eyes but Harry laughs hoarsely into the breeze, tilting his face into the sun. The glint of heavy light reflects off his Ray-Bans, a small solar flare of gold.

“Quite the time we had,” he says, slow and careful.

Liam makes a content noise. “Noisy shags, you two.”

“Lou was always so bloody insufferable when he was about to come,” Zayn adds, laughing around a puff of smoke.

Harry raises an eyebrow, lips starting to quirk. “Could hear us?”

“Shit walls, mate,” Zayn shrugs, exhaling a fog of bluish smoke. “Had’ta sleep with a pillow over me head so I wouldn’t kip through my morning class. Awful lot, you and him.”

He takes another dull drag, the shutter of Liam’s camera drawing his attention. Liam looks sheepish, ducking his head, his camera still trained on Zayn. Another photo for whatever it is he’s done with them. A collage? One of those cheesy scrapbooks, maybe.

Zayn snubs out his cigarette and doesn’t bother Liam over it.

(because, possibly, he’s used to it now and wouldn’t mind being in the background of all Liam’s fuzzily focused pictures ― an unintentional link to all of his artwork)

“Honestly,” Harry starts, his voice hovering between lazy and fond, “M’ quite happy Niall is around to keep him company. An odd pair, yeah?”

“Weird,” Liam mumbles at the ground.

Zayn snorts. He tucks his face into a square of light between two buildings, liking the peel of warmth over his eyelids.

“Horrible,” he smiles, dopily affectionate by accident. “Always need a few paracetamols to deal with those two. It’s annoying.”

Harry huffs a laugh to the sky, nodding, kicking his boots onto an empty chair at their table. All of the tension melts away, the apprehension of revisiting a dead relationship. It’s what it is now, Zayn muses. A friendship gone pear-shaped after a term of shagging each other’s brains out.

It’s a bit like ―

That’s horribly wrong. Absolute bullshit. He and Liam are _nothing_ like ―

“Don’t miss him much anymore?” Liam wonders, his tone half-teasing.

Harry licks out a huge grin, all teeth and cherry lips. “Only on rare days,” he admits with a stuttered giggle. “When things get too quiet around here.” He inhales a breath, keeping it in his chest, adding, “Louis hates the quiet. Always wants noise. Can’t quite sit still in the silence.”

Zayn studies him, the way Harry looks thoughtful. Right there, under the sun, he can see a spot of a Harry who was madly in love with Louis before he knew it. Young and enchanted by some boy who loved footy, always flicked his fringe out of his eyes. Loud and obnoxious.

Nothing like Harry.

An opposite puzzle piece that just _fit_.

“So,” Harry hums, propping his chin on his hands, knocking his elbows onto the table, looking a bit like one of those cheeky detectives from shit telly sitcoms. “How long’ve you two been at it? Shagging about?”

Zayn bites slowly over his bottom lip. In his peripheral, he can see Liam fidgeting with his camera like he always does when he gets nervous.

“I can see it,” Harry says, teasingly. “You’re different. Not like I remember you two. Always thought it’d happen. Good for you.”

Zayn blinks at Harry, still not turning to Liam. It would be so easy ― to shout instead of whisper. To live in color rather than grey. Just reach under the table, twine his fingers with Liam’s, give his hand a soft, reassuring squeeze like he’s proud of whatever this is.

Liam clears his throat. “It’s, um, nothing,” he stammers, cheeks lit like an early sun. His eyes lower, but he repeats _‘nothing’_ like it’s needed.

Zayn stares at him for a long beat. Liam doesn’t look back and Zayn’s not _hurt_ or ―

He’s nothing.

Liam keeps staring at the ground, schooling his breathing, his brow stitched together like he’s ashamed. Or hiding. He’s fraying around the edges and Zayn knows better than to scold him.

The kisses and roaming hands and cuddling in one bed is a _nothing_. He’s not bothered by that.

(all these years, Liam was supposed to be the shit liar between them but ― )

Harry shrugs, shoving hair off his face. He leans back in his chair, says, “S’okay if you do. Fancy each other, I mean. Or just get off with one another. Friends with benefits and such. Sometimes I wonder if it’s what Lou and me had.”

Zayn sniffs, fingers reflexively twitching for a cigarette.

“Smashing good time,” Harry adds, smirking.

Except it’s a little sad and Zayn doesn’t want to know what that’s like. Not one bit.

 

//

 

It’s one of those purple evenings, an hour into twilight, the sun hiding beneath the horizon. A noisy restaurant at the heart of the city, the patio littered with their classmates. Wine spills into glasses, over cloth table dressings. Carbonara and alfredo shuffled into bowls around the table.

His classmates are smitten over Harry and his slow, smoky drawl and carefree curls and loosely buttoned shirts. They’re lost on all of his stories, his cheesy jokes, the half-moon dimples in his cheeks. It’s some sort of magic ― the charm of Harry Styles. Like star gazing, all of the gravity circling Harry.

All of the students crowding the tables are a bit fond of Liam too, but differently. They giggle _at_ him rather than _with_ him when he tells a shit joke. Shuffling whispers between themselves when Liam’s not looking. They watch intently as he talks with his hands, flashing him synthetic smiles. None it feels genuine ―

Not the way Zayn feels fireworks under his skin each time Liam’s mouth slides into a goofy grin.

Or how loud his laugh echoes at his own dumb jokes.

Because Liam is _funny_. Interesting. Bloody fascinating with all of his twitches, the stammer in his voice when there’s too much attention on him, the laughter lines around his eyes.

There’s lit candles in jars scattered at all of the tables. Zayn studies how the flames flick orangey ribbons over Liam’s cheeks, making his eyes look like fresh poured whiskey. All of the light casting shadows around Liam’s smile, the wrinkle of his brow.

He’s sat across from Liam and the little crowd he’s gathered. The leftover wine in his system makes him feel loose, calm. But he watches Liam like he can’t move. Solid muscles frozen.

Zayn takes a quick drag from his cigarette, licking his dry lips. He wants to knock the silly snapback off Liam’s head, chase the light over Liam’s hair to watch it turn a spun gold hue. He wants to drag his thumb over Liam’s cheek, see if he can wipe away the blush. Curve his mouth over Liam’s and wait patiently for Liam to suck the smoke out of Zayn’s lungs.

Instead, he watches with half-lidded eyes, puffing absently through his ciggy.

Soft music overhead, unfamiliar but relaxing, floods his ears. Something Harry would like, probably Niall too. It plucks away and Zayn swallows more smoke. He exhales on _‘you lined me up across the room two falling sparks one willing fool’_ while something tight in his lungs finally gives way.

Something uncages the monster in his chest.

And he _can’t_ look away.

Harry plops down next to him, elbowing him with one of those sugary teasing smiles he always assaulted Louis with when he was in a proper happy mood.

“It’s nothing?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

Zayn sighs out a breath of smoke and keeps his eyes on Liam. He gives a one-shouldered shrug but it’s hardly convincing.

It’s an abysmal attempt, actually, but he doesn’t seem to have a fuck to give at the moment.

Zayn just wants to watch Liam glow like a tangerine star right here, in the middle of a twilight.

He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to regret. Zayn’s just so fucking _exhausted_ on it all.

“Doesn’t seem that way,” Harry adds, snorting, twisting away to start up another chat with a few students.

Absently, Zayn nods. It doesn’t.

But he doesn’t have enough words to argue what it just _might_ be.

He keeps smoking his cigarette and, across the table, Liam starts to watch him too with bright eyes, a crooked grin, this helpless giggle that makes his shoulders lift and fall. His teeth bite the edge of his tongue while _‘it shouldn’t come as a surprise what I’m feeling now’_ hums in the background.

“It’s nothing,” Zayn says, under his breath, feeling himself sink into a lie Liam created for them.

 

//

 

**Rome ― 20:08 PM**

_‘Robert Hass wrote:_

“We spoke all night in tongues, in fingertips, in teeth.”

_It’s a lovely quote. Makes me think of being in love. I’m horrible at love._

_I can’t quite get it right. All me life. Doniya is right._

_Thanks Rome!’_

 

//

 

“Why are we doing this?” Liam asks, half-giggling, half-serious with his eyebrows raised, creating tiny ripples in his forehead.

Zayn sighs softly. “Cause even Bruce Wayne needs to be normal sometimes,” he teases.

Their bare feet drag over the carpet as they shift around. His foot accidentally steps onto Liam’s toes and he inhales sharply when Liam winces. He mutters a quick _‘sorry’_ and relaxes his arms, twined loosely around Liam’s neck.

They’re shuffling in this tiny semi-circle in the middle of their hotel room. Stepping over kicked off trainers, swaying away from the bed. It’s clumsy, awkward. It’s not a waltz or anything they’ve laughed at while cuddled on a couch, taking the piss at _Strictly Come Dancing_ with a bowl of popcorn between them.

But Zayn thinks, with the plum sky outside and the night still so young ― this is pretty incredible.

Even while they’re stepping on each other’s feet and Liam still hasn’t figured out where to put his hands (on Zayn’s hips, in the hollows of his ribs, smoothing down the line of Zayn’s back) this feels _easy_.

They’re turning lazily, Liam taking the lead, Zayn’s foot stomping on Liam’s again.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“You’re awful,” Liam replies with a laugh, sharp lines crinkling his eyes, his mouth round and his white teeth bright.

“And you’re drunk,” Zayn hums.

Liam gives a sluggish shrug. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Zayn repeats, trying to hide his grin in the crook of his elbow.

Liam’s fingers catch his chin before he can, dragging his attention back. His thumb runs the sharp length of Zayn’s jaw and their eyes meet. They’re caught in a knot (like the one in Zayn’s stomach) but he feels so loose.

Indescribably _calm_ right here, shuffling about with Liam, dreadful swaying like in those black and white films his mum prattles on about while she’s in the kitchen.

“Not bad, Payno,” he exhales.

Liam’s lips shift up like a bad reflex. “I’ve got two older sisters, Zayn,” he comments, finally resting a hand on the small of Zayn’s back, tracing the dimples under Zayn’s shirt. “Loads of practice, mate. They always needed a boy around to help them rehearse before their school dances. Made me wear me best suits while they put on their frocks.”

Zayn hums appreciatively, following Liam’s footsteps. He looks down, briefly, trying to avoid Liam’s bare feet.

“Mum always played old tunes like this,” Liam adds, his face closer, his breath tickling Zayn’s upper lip. “Classics, man.”

Zayn snorts, his nose wrinkling happily.

His phone is playing something old, Sam Cooke he thinks, the atmosphere a bit intimate. Their hotel window cracked, letting in the heady scent of Rome. A honeyed voice lulling _‘Cupid draw back your bow and let your arrow go straight to my lover’s heart for me’_ while they step around abandoned clothes on the floor.

He’s still buzzing from the wine, his thoughts fogged in his head. A mess of static.

“Did you mean it, earlier,” he pauses, swallowing. He looks up through his eyelashes.

“Hmm?” Liam hums, tilting his head curiously.

Zayn hesitates. His heart is like a hummingbird and his veins crackle like the first light of a joint.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

The hand on his back feels warmer, Liam’s spare hand still cupping Zayn’s chin. He turns them, slow and awkward, whispering _‘Cupid please hear my cry and let your arrow fly’_ in this baritone that leaves Zayn numb.

Fearless, honestly.

“You’re my best mate,” Liam mumbles, lips skimming the shell of Zayn’s ear. He presses his nose to Zayn’s shoulder, sighing, “I love you, babe.”

“Still drunk?” Zayn asks.

Liam shakes his head but keeps his nose pressed to Zayn’s shirt.

A laugh, rough and coarse, moves up Zayn’s throat. His arms tighten around Liam. “Yeah, yeah. Me too. Like. Me too, Li.”

“But, like,” Liam swallows, dragging his hand down to Zayn’s sternum, pressing down like he’s trying to feel the rhythm of an anxious heart underneath. “Nevermind.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow, trying to nudge Liam’s head up.

Liam stays right there, exhaling louder. “I’m Batman,” he huffs, the words ghosting up Zayn’s neck. “And you’re Robin. My Robin.”

His tongue flicks out to wet his chapped lips. His heart thumps like a marching band. His fingers card through Liam’s hair, across the buzzed sides, to the tips of his fallen mohawk.

“Yeah,” he breathes, finally letting something fill this hollow in his chest. “Yours.”

They keep dancing with a summer’s night breeze spilling into the room, a steady _‘I need you Cupid help me’_ in their ears, stepping on each other’s feet like idiots.

Zayn presses his soft, wet lips to Liam’s temple and Liam doesn’t say a word.

 

//

 

Zayn is certain he utterly hates heights. And flying.

But on his very first flight, the airplane sat on the tarmac, the engines humming and his nerves spiking, Zayn tries to focus on anything else.

(Well, _Liam_ , truthfully but that’s already become a bit redundant, he thinks)

He thumbs out a quick _‘thank you love you miss you x’_ text to Harry while they wait. His leg refuses to quit bouncing, his lungs whining for a cigarette even though he huffed through three before they made it to the gate that morning. He keeps messing fingers through his hair (and fucking it up) while they wait.

And wait.

There’s noise and chatter all around, the entire lot of students buzzing for Greece and the sun and the beach but Zayn can’t stop glaring out the window.

At the ground.

 _Safety_.

He exhales loudly, thumbing another message, to Niall: _‘keep off me bed with your filthy blowjobs you menace! be home soon ;)’_

His fingers squeeze around his phone, eyes flitting to the front of the cabin where the flight attendant goes over safety tips and procedures. He can’t hear a thing ― too much white static in his ears.

Warm fingers crawl into his lap, wrap around his spare hand, give a soft, reassuring squeeze. It’s familiar in ways he loves. Like your first sip of tea in the morning. Or sliding into a wooly jumper in the middle of winter. Running wildly in the rain.

“Alright?” Liam asks, keeping his voice low like he’s terrified of the attendant’s wrath for whispering during her speech.

“No.”

Liam snorts, giving Zayn’s hand another squeeze. “S’cool, man. You can just kip through the flight.”

Zayn sighs, blinking down at their hands.

It’s comforting watching the contrast in their skin and the rough of Zayn’s knuckles compared to Liam’s dull fingernails. Weaving fingers tangling like knots. The steady brush of Liam’s thumb over the back of Zayn’s hand.

“Can’t sleep when I think I’m gonna die.”

Liam laughs again, hiding it when another attendant peeks over at them. She shakes a finger and Zayn swears the flush of pink smudged over Liam’s cheeks should be ugly. Dreadful.

(it’s _not_ and his free fingers press to it to feel the heat)

“Could sneak into the toilets,” Liam offers, licking at his chapped lips, his smile going crooked. “Heard blowies while thousands of meters in the sky is sick.”

Zayn shoots Liam an incredulous look, wide eyes and a parted mouth and it doesn’t shift past him the way Liam looks bashful but half-serious about the suggestion.

He leans in, just a spare inch, grinning. “You’re insufferable.”

Liam shrugs, nonchalant and casual. “Can’t say I’d be too bothered by it.”

“Sucking me off?”

“Calming you down,” Liam grins, looking away.

Zayn nods even if Liam can’t see him. He tightens his fingers around Liam’s and barely notices the jerk of the plane when it starts to race up the tarmac.

He’s thinking of sketching that filthy smile Liam’s wearing and wondering how pleasant it would feel to have Liam’s strong fingers roaming the inside of his thighs while he eased his cock down Liam’s throat.

His dick twitches in his jeans but he ignores it. It’s a fucking tragedy.

“I’m calm,” he whispers, blinking his eyes shut. “You make me calm.”

 

//

 

**Rhodes ― 13:01 PM**

_‘The sun is in my eyes but I can see him. I always see him. In my sleep. In the dark. In the rain. When he’s not around._

_I always see him._

_I love that I always see him and hope he sees me too.’_

 

//

 

The resort in Rhodes is a cove of land yards from the beach. Their room has a seaside view, glass doors pulled apart to let in the scent of warm sand and salty waters and sandalwood. It’s the sort of view that Zayn can appreciate from all angles.

Mostly afar, but he likes the sharp taste of the waters at the back of his throat while he’s having morning tea. The crest of the sun blooming in their room just before dusk.

The way it all seems so pale when Liam’s around.

Zayn is sat nestled in the sand, knees drawn up, balancing his chin on them, grinning while a heavy glint of sun creates gold circles in his vision. He watches Liam chasing the surf down to the shore, kicking at the water.

There’s a group of children following him around ― some lazy surf king and his trusty knights. They splash around him, giggling louder than the soaring birds, spinning in manic circles.

All of the sun in his eyes can’t block his view of those lines creased into the skin around Liam’s eyes or the height of his cheeks. Trickling sweat slips over his biceps, the fuzzy hair on his chest matted. His feet keep sinking into the wet sand while running from the lot of local children, all of them howling like wild wolves.

(Liam’s pack ― _their pack_ , he thinks, distantly)

Thick accents shouting a victory when Liam stumbles into the sand, piling on top of him, squealing like happily wounded monsters when Liam rises up with each of them tangled around a limb.

Zayn lips spread into a sharp grin at Liam. It’s something out of _Pacific Rim_ or one of those alien action films they stay up late watching, together, curled around each other with dumb grins on their mouths.

(Something rattles in this mad syncopation behind his chest but he thinks he’s used to it now. He’s adapted. He’s evolved.)

He anchors his hands into the sand, arms behind him, leaning back with a fuzzy laugh. His fingers shift in the sand and there’s a thick bar of sun still in his eyes but he doesn’t mind.

Zayn just wants to watch Liam splash around the water with a mindless trail of children following him for a little bit longer.

(Liam is one huge, massive kid out here. Batman shedding his cape and cowl to glow in the sun.)

He’s everyone’s favorite superhero (including Zayn’s and he can admit that, bashfully) in the middle of the afternoon.

Liam jogs up, stumbling in the dry sand, blocking the sun from Zayn’s vision.

(He’s all Zayn sees and Zayn’s not high or buzzed but he feels poetic, wordy ― _alive_.)

He drips water everywhere, flicking salty drops of the sea onto Zayn when he brushes his hair off his brow. Liam grins madly over Zayn, all the bits of water glittery as they shift over his laughing smile and stick to his eyelashes, bead across his lips like dewdrops.

“Oi, piss off,” Zayn giggles, kicking at Liam’s bare ankle. “You’ll get me all wet.”

Liam sputters, wiping a wet hand down his soaked face. It only smears sand and sea all over, Zayn admittedly amused by how Liam doesn’t seem to notice.

“Geek,” Zayn huffs, tipping his head back for a better view.

Liam stretches a hand out to Zayn like an invitation. An obvious offer. “C’mon now. Can’t stay away from the water the whole trip,” he insists, jerking his head towards the surf.

It smacks on the shore like a clap of thunder and Zayn shudders.

“I’ll drown,” he pouts, fixing a scowl at Liam when he shrugs.

“I’ll save you,” Liam smiles. His fingers wiggle at Zayn but he doesn’t budge up. “Trust me, then?”

“No,” Zayn groans.

Liam frowns a little, still wriggling his fingers at Zayn. They flick water all over Zayn’s shredded jeans. “C’mon now, babe,” he whines.

Zayn wrinkles his nose.

“Just to your knees,” Liam sighs, squatting down, the sun spiking spare gold over his wide shoulders. He fits a stern expression to his face, trying to create a hint of conviction into his stiff jaw. His fingers carefully roll up the cuffs of Zayn’s jeans until they’re bunched just under Zayn’s knees. “Let’s go Malik. Time to be brave.”

His tongue licks over his dry lips and Zayn’s heart flickers at this shutter pace he can’t control. His fingers dig further into the sand but only for seconds. He lets out a low breath. The sun is still in his eyes but there’s shadowing around Liam’s face, cast around his warm smile and crinkled eyes.

“M’gonna regret this,” he mumbles but he lifts a shaky hand, grabbing Liam’s.

There’s strength and a certain coil to Liam’s muscles when he hauls Zayn up. Their fingers, on purpose, lace together until Zayn finds his footing.

“Stay with me now,” Liam says, words lost on a laugh.

Zayn hesitates, barely, before following Liam down to the surf.

Calm waves circle his ankles, the sea cool but not icy. It licks up to his calves, the foamy surf tickling the hairs there. He’s unsteady, shaking, but he follows the smiles Liam shoots him over his shoulder.

It keeps him grounded.

“Good?” Liam asks, twenty steps into shallow waters.

Zayn exhales a tight breath, nodding sharply.

“Honestly?” Liam wonders, twisting to get a better look at Zayn.

The sun is still coasting in the background, heavy dense lights of flaxen surrounding Liam. It settles something warm, like melting caramel, deep in Zayn’s blood. His lips twitch sideways, lifting into a smile that’s all teeth and tongue. His fingers tighten around Liam’s and ―

Yeah. He’s fine. He’s a fucking prince of Atlantis and Liam feels like an adoring king in front of him.

“Good, man,” he says, finding half of his voice.

Liam wriggles his eyebrows, leaning down to splash a handful of water at Zayn. Zayn yelps but retaliates quickly, kicking salty water at Liam. They wrestle and tumble, knees dipping into the surf, hair wrecked like seaweed, laughing like carefree idiots. Zayn swallows salt and knocks around with Liam until he can barely breathe without gasping.

The children gather in a jagged line to watch, pointing, giggling into their hands, cheering Liam on while Zayn struggles to keep balanced.

(And Zayn does drown ― but in something deeper than the Aegean Sea and he doesn’t want to come up for air.)

 

//

 

“And here we have Zayn Malik, soon to be famous art wizard ― not like Harry Potter, unfortunately,” Liam says, coaching his voice into a terrible impression of a film documentary narrator.

He’s trailing behind Zayn in Old Town, filming Zayn with his phone, turning the lens back and forth to pull goofy faces while Zayn groans sleepily.

“You’re a dolt,” Zayn says, sniffing, guarding a smile by gnawing his lower lip raw.

He’s ditched some boring lecture on post-impressionist art to accompany Liam’s photography class through the medieval walls, fascinated by all the history in the stones. Midway through a professor’s speech about Knights Street, he’d nick Liam’s Polaroid, snapping shots here and there of the town.

“You’re a poor exhibit, Malik,” Liam says, into the camera, of course.

Zayn rolls his eyes but the fond on his lips won’t submit.

He leans back on his heels near one of the walls, clicking off a picture, grinning to himself. He’s not nearly as impressive as Liam, he knows, but he likes trying. He’s studied Liam enough to know a few techniques, how to watch for proper lighting, strong angles.

Zayn enjoys attempting to make Liam proud.

“I’m shite,” he sighs, pulling away for another photo. The angry glare of the sun filters into his focus.

“You’re not,” Liam smirks, crowding into Zayn’s back, his chest supporting Zayn’s spine. “Lower.”

Zayn follows Liam’s instructions, letting Liam’s hands mold around his to adjust the camera’s angle. Their synchronized exhale echoes in Zayn’s ears.

“You’re fairly good for an amateur,” Liam mutters, his wheezing giggle brushing the shell of Zayn’s ear.

Zayn spins away, a flush of pink high on his cheeks when he punches Liam’s shoulder roughly.

“S’that a compliment, tosser?”

Liam sniffs, shrugging, chewing at his small, abashed smile.

“Probably,” he replies, stealing back his camera.

Zayn nods, brushing his soft flat hair off his forehead. They fall away from the crowd of students, leaning against a long stretch of wall. Liam reloads film into his camera, careful and precise hands moving like a technician, and Zayn considers lighting up but ―

There’s something dense already in his lungs that he needs to let out.

“Did you mean it a few days ago?” he wonders, keeping his eyes off Liam. “I mean ― is it nothing?”

“What’s nothing?” Liam asks, confused.

Zayn’s brow lowers. He schools his face from pouting, shrugging like none of this really matters. He doesn’t need to know.

He prefers not to know, actually.

His lips quirk, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth before he mumbles, “Us? I mean ― “

There’s a breathy laugh next to him, Liam’s hands no longer fiddling with his camera. He’s staring at Zayn, his face lit up by the sun and something brighter. Soft wrinkles around whiskey eyes. Pink lips stretching too wide, on the verge of comical.

“Zayn,” Liam exhales, pushing off the wall, circling until his feet fit between Zayn’s.

He leans in close, their chests nearly touching, sparing a hand to rope his fingers around Zayn’s like a sailor’s knot. Zayn’s geek of a best friend blocking the sun but still glowing like he doesn’t need some dumb star to give him a shine.

“Stupid lad,” Liam whispers, cocking his head. “I’ve been wanting something for so long that I just tell me’self it’s nowt. Just hoping, yeah? A little wishful thinking that you’d, like, get how I am about you. Do it a tad too often, don’t I?”

“How are you?” Zayn asks, swallowing his words into half-syllables. “About me?”

“Mad,” Liam mumbles with his lip between his teeth.

“Fancy me?”

Liam blinks like there’s something stuck in his eyes. He laughs, short and clipped like a hiccup.

“Mmhm.”

Zayn’s throat is dry but he fights the glass on his tongue, his lips drawing up. “A bit gone over me?”

Liam rolls his eyes, creasing his brow. “Since forever, mate. Don’t really remember when now.”

Zayn nods slowly. He’s sinking in the tide, even on dry land. Louis’ stupid words and Niall’s brilliant advice and all of Harry’s observations. His ability to be so _daft_ and so in ―

He can find the word. He can say it. He can at least think it, right?

Zayn carefully threads their fingers properly between them, scratching his thumbnail to Liam’s skin. A pinky sweeps the bird inked to the back of Zayn’s hand and that’s a start. A quiet _‘okay’_ because Zayn still can’t say it all.

Or anything at all.

Instead, they walk in silence, following the path of the walls. They fall into a rhythm with their steps, stupid smiles stretched over their faces and words caught in Zayn’s throat.

 

//

 

Zayn is watching Liam from the bathroom doorway. He’s struggling with his tie in the mirror, shaking hands unable to fasten his cufflinks. His hair is still soft from a shower, product-free. His plush bottom lip is bitten red from the nerves and he looks a right mess.

Still, Zayn can’t help but think he looks quite amazing.

The farewell dinner for the students has already started downstairs in some posh conference room. Zayn’s certain it’s quite the affair ― girls in nice black dresses, lads in smart shirts and waistcoats. A spread of local dishes and final projects displayed all over the room.

Some swinging little do that he probably won’t care for.

Not like he does this moment, his heart finally starting to calm behind his ribs.

“I look terrible, do I not?” Liam sighs. He stares at Zayn in the reflection, frowning.

The corners of Zayn’s mouth twitch unevenly, a crooked little grin.

“Quite the opposite, mate.”

Liam coughs a short laugh, shaking his head, still fumbling with the cufflinks. “Like you’d know,” he says mockingly, pouting his lips. “You always look brilliant.”

Zayn swallows a chuckle, training his eyes on Liam’s mouth. His lips are a cherry red like he’s sucked an ice lolly for hours, making all the color in his cheeks look pale when he catches Zayn staring.

“You look clever,” Zayn says, inching inside the room. “Smart. Extraordinary. Incredible. Aston― “

“Oi, quit making up words now,” Liam giggles, his shoulders coming up around his ears, that half-moon dimple in one of his cheeks standing out.

Zayn bites on his lip, smiling.

All of his nerves crackle like those old autumn leaves in late October. This warm feeling like freshly steeped tea churns in his belly. He’s feeling a little brave and, fuck, that’s Liam’s job. He’s the superhero. Zayn is just ―

Well, no one remembers Robin when Gotham City’s no longer on fire.

But with Liam? He feels like someone finally sees all of those good things under his skin and he can’t bother just _thinking_ about it anymore.

“Haven’t told ya enough how much you mean, have I?” Zayn asks, twisting back into Liam’s view. His hands fix Liam’s sleeves, snapping the cufflinks (Batman ones, of course) into place.

“Don’t need to,” Liam says, self-conscious and shy.

Zayn looks up through his eyelashes at the fond look Liam’s giving him. It anchors him. He feels a little bolder, one of those neon signs in the middle of traffic.

“I do,” he mumbles. His fingers adjust the knot of Liam’s tie, patting down his collar. “Wanted to tell you for so long, man, but I’m a bit daft ― “

“Hey,” Liam laughs. “Been chatting with Doniya again?”

Zayn sighs, feeling sheepish. He wrinkles his nose and sucks in a quick breath. He knows he could just walk away from this but ―

“Not any good with words,” he mutters, pulling his journal from where he’s kept it tucked under his arm, “so I’ve got this to help out.”

He shoves it at Liam’s chest, almost regrets it when Liam’s hand curls around it. When Liam’s brow wrinkles like he’s confused.

“No one reads your journal, Z.”

Zayn scrunches his nose, nodding, pressing it into Liam’s palm. His voice is insistent, strained when he huffs, “Just do it, you twit.”

Liam gives Zayn a slow nod but there’s still a flicker of uncertainty embedded in his eyes. A hesitation that tightens the wire around Zayn’s stomach. But something like awe floods Liam’s face, teeth pulling in his lower lip, eyes brightening.

He stumbles all the way to their bed, Zayn following, their knees touching as they sit on the edge. Liam reads with his index finger trailing all of Zayn’s words. He doesn’t blink away or laugh at all of Zayn’s pointless scribbling. He doesn’t take the piss at him.

Liam reads until Zayn’s not sure either one of them is breathing and that explains why he’s lightheaded.

He touches his hand to Liam’s hot cheek, fingers following the line of blush when Liam lifts his head.

“Guess I’ve been a bit mad over you for ages,” Zayn says, trying to prevent his voice from cracking. He smiles, lopsided and warm, pushing Liam’s hair back. “Didn’t quite know it though.”

“All of this is about me?” Liam asks.

Zayn snorts, wriggling his eyebrows. “Most of it.”

“And France?” Liam wonders, pressing his cheek into Zayn’s palm.

“You.”

“Venice?” Liam stammers.

“You.”

“Rome?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, gnawing down on his lip to shrink the width of his smile. “ _You_ , alright? Bloody fucking Leeyum Payno. S’all about you.”

“Cause I’m your best mate?” Liam beams.

“No,” Zayn replies, his voice flat. He pops his bottom lip from between his teeth, exhaling softly. “Because I’m so fucking daft about love, mate, but I know I’m pretty fucked when it comes to you. Madly in love. Shit, it’s awful.”

Liam sputters a laugh and Zayn thumps him in the shoulder with a fist.

“Just not how you go about telling a lad you’re pretty gone for him, s’all,” Liam says between gasping giggles.

“Yeah, well,” Zayn shrugs, still carding fingers through Liam’s hair. “I am.”

Liam nods. He lifts a hand to drag his fingers under Zayn’s chin, squeezing his jaw.

“Me too.”

And it should be this loud, fucking riot of a declaration but that’s not them. They’re not fireworks and messages written in the clouds. They’re comic book panels and a long kiss after stopping the bomb from blowing up the city.

“Love you,” Zayn whispers, smiling, nearly laughing when his lips brush Liam’s because this is so daft.

(it’s _perfect_ , truthfully)

Liam mumbles something back but Zayn doesn’t care for it. He parts his lips for Liam’s tongue and the soft tug of his teeth. He tastes Liam’s soft moan and chases all of their heavy breaths with more kisses. Raw, decisive kisses that make them even later for the dinner.

(Not that Zayn cared one bit for anything but this moment anyway.)

 

//

 

It’s so quiet here.

In their hotel room, in that purple hour of the night, the moon calm and the sea humming gentle melodies every time it crashes against the shore.

Not that Zayn notices any of it.

He’s spent an hour lying on his side in a massive bed, cuddled to the middle with Liam opposite him, their eyes never really looking away. Just staring.

No words or stupid banter between them.

 _Just staring_.

It should feel vulnerable but it’s not. It’s so calm. Relaxing. Like that feeling when you’re floating on your back in the middle of the water ― numbing and tranquil.

(Zayn’s not felt that yet but he’s heard Liam going on about how he can’t hear anything and how amazing it is just to be so weightless on the water and Zayn imagines this is it.)

(This is _that feeling_.)

Liam’s the first to crack. His lips twitch and pull up into one of those maddeningly wide smiles he wears like an idiot. It pushes at his cheeks, makes his eyes go squinty, a laugh bubbling past the swell of his lips.

It’s contagious. A giggle, a breathy noise, all of these genuinely happy squeaks coming out of him and Zayn can’t help himself.

He splutters and snickers too. Absently, he smiles fondly and laughs with Liam until it hurts.

Until they’re breathless, red-faced but so content.

“You’re a nerd,” Zayn sighs, reaching the small gap between them to push at Liam’s shoulder.

“You’re a geek,” Liam counters, pushing back.

Their bare feet brush over the sheets. They’re only half-dressed from dinner, shirts undone, trousers unzipped, waistcoats and jackets tossed on a chair in the corner. Zayn’s hair has gone soft after the product faded and Liam’s mohawk sits wobbly, losing its height.

It’s so _sobering_ when things go quiet again. There’s no champagne in their system from the dinner. No nicotine in their lungs because they skipped cigarettes with Andy to run to the lifts.

To knock through their hotel door and toe off their shoes just to lie here.

In a bed too big on sheets too cold just to stare at each other like ―

 _Wow_.

“My geek?” Liam wonders, looking so young when the moon casts pearl light over his face.

Zayn huffs a noise, a half-laugh. He gives a slow nod, scooting in. His hand curls over the nape of Liam’s neck to pull him in.

They kiss like it’s the first time. Like all of this is new even though it feels old and worn and comfortable.

(a bit like _home_ , even if they’re nowhere near London)

It’s intense, the filthy drag of their mouths, the teasing tongues and sharp teeth. Carnal, he thinks, trying to gather his breaths but Liam is suffocating him.

Kissing like he might not get this back.

(in hindsight, Zayn thinks it’s something he should always want ― a best mate who kisses like tomorrow isn’t a given)

Liam’s thick fingers catch on the tangles in Zayn’s hair. His spare hand traces Zayn’s hip, finding the grooves, pulling just enough to haul Zayn into him.

“Shit,” Zayn hisses, biting on Liam’s fat lower lip, tangling their legs.

Liam hums enthusiastically, tugging on Zayn’s hair, mouthing over his throat to leave a trail of love bites like little red suns. Colorful marks that will be sore in the morning. In a few hours, at the height of dawn.

He likes the barest press of Liam’s lips over his when they’re trying to pull off their kits. Helping hands shaking because they know how far they can go now. Anxious, he thinks. Zayn likes teasing Liam’s lips open with his tongue while he’s too caught on the sleeves of his shirt tangling around his wrist to notice.

Their feet kick away pants and his cock bobs side to side when Liam shifts them up the bed. It’s already shiny at the head, his hands itching to touch. He crawls into Liam’s lap, grinning, bedhair and wild eyes looking down at Liam’s mischievous smile.

“Proper fit lad,” Liam teases, cradling Zayn’s hips with his sweaty hands.

“Shut up,” Zayn grins, whining a little when Liam doesn’t shift his hands to his dick.

Instead, Liam licks out a gentle smile, admiring him.

“You always do that,” Liam says, lifting his eyebrows. “Get a bit pink when I look at you.”

Zayn scrunches his brow but his cheeks are flushed, feverish. There’s freckles of blush down his neck and chest and it’s stupid, really.

He’s had a few one-offs and been completely casual about a decent shag or a quick blowjob without feeling the need to fall for cheesy compliments, rehearsed words people say just before a fuck.

But every little vowel seems to matter when it comes from those ruddy, plush lips.

“Up, up. C’mon,” Liam mumbles, sparing a hand to pat roughly at Zayn’s bum, pulling him forward. “Wanna eat you out before I fu― “

The word sticks to Liam’s tongue and Zayn draws up an eyebrow, feeling intensely sheepish at how Liam goes from geeky and daft to obscene but ―

“Is that alright? Too much?” Liam wonders.

Zayn exhales, his cock already twitching at the thought. Blurting out stringy clear precome, his balls drawing up. He settles his hands on Liam’s shoulders, scooting forward, shaking his head.

“S’good, babe,” he chews out. “Like, I’d be mad if I said ― “

“No?”

“Fuck,” Zayn breathes. “Need it. Your mouth. Haven’t been properly opened up like that and ― “

Liam chuckles softly, nodding, keeping a strong hand low on Zayn’s spine to push him all the way up. His cock drags over Liam’s mouth, the smug asshole teasing out his tongue to lap at the underside, giggling as it accidentally smears precome across the tip of his nose, over his brow as Zayn struggles to find his balance.

On his knees, the skin already starting to burn, his arse lifted and hovering over Liam’s mouth.

“Won’t suffocate you, will I?” Zayn asks, his forearms stinging from the exertion in this position.

“Shut up,” Liam says and Zayn can hear the smile in his tone. “Sit on me face.”

It should be disturbing, the way Liam’s lewd and blunt with his words but Zayn feels a tremble up his spine at how husky his voice gets. The way he reaches under Zayn’s thighs, strong fingers spreading Zayn’s cheeks open. How easily Zayn arches his spine like he’s desperate for it before Liam opens his mouth around Zayn’s hole.

Liam is _incredible_. Sloppy with his tongue, artfully using the tip to trace out of focus circles around Zayn’s rim. Slippery figure-eights. Mouthing the hole until it’s dripping. A loud suck, a warm kiss, flicking his tongue rapidly against the curl of muscles.

Zayn bites out a noise, pushing fists into the mattress, pressing his weight into his arms.

“Shit,” he hisses. His thighs shake and Liam moans beatifically over his hole.

Zayn gasps for a bit of air, his lungs gone dry with friction, the heat overwhelming. It aches in his chest but Liam keeps pulling at his hips until Zayn’s sat on his mouth.

Open and wet, a tongue swirling these lazy circles around the rim.

“C’mon,” Liam moans, gasping for a breath, still teasing his tongue against Zayn’s hole. Broad, wide stripes, stutter flicks until Zayn’s shaking. “Want you t’ just, like. Ride me face?”

Zayn groans, loud and completely unabashed. His skin still pricks with pinkish blush and his cock stiffens like iron. It drips precome everywhere but he doesn’t mind.

He’s so high on this. Liam’s needy voice and those hands squeezing his hips, trying to drag Zayn down. The tongue on his hole, opening him up in these measured beats.

Zayn kicks away the hesitation, nodding, biting his lip raw and nearly bleeding. He settles onto his knees, straddling Liam’s mouth, avoiding those blown dark eyes looking up at him or the way his dick keeps leaking messily.

He’s gentle, rocking his hips slowly, all of Liam’s saliva making his chin shiny and his mouth obscene from this view. Liam’s fingers tighten in the hollows and his swats a hand against Zayn’s bum.

The bloody teasing bastard.

Zayn’s moans turn breathy. Just deep exhales and grunts. His heart is erratic in his chest, this natural need to grind down onto Liam’s stiff tongue making him dizzy.

“Liam,” he whines, losing his rhythm.

Liam flutters his eyes shut, flicking his tongue faster.

Zayn feels on the verge. He feels like a star is blooming, turning supernova, expanding to create galaxies and solar systems.

His cock is wet without Liam’s mouth or his hand. Fits of precome that trickle over Liam’s face but he seems unaffected. Too focused on rubbing his tongue over Zayn’s hole, fucking up into him, unsettling those sensitive nerves.

“Can’t,” Zayn whimpers, faltering. “Need you to, like. Fuck me, man. Just fuck me. Liam, please, I need ― “

Liam chuckles under him, breathing the noise to Zayn’s hole, drawing another shiver across his spine. Like a guitar string snapping.

They’re a little unprepared like dumb teen romance films. There’s spare lube tucked into the pocket of Zayn’s duffle (an emergency stash he tells himself, even if it was Louis who packed it with a cheeky grin) and they’re both a little too shy to stumble to Andy’s room with a stiffy to beg off a strip of condoms.

“M’okay,” Zayn mumbles with two of Liam’s fingers in his arse, straddling his belly now.

Liam drags up a curious eyebrow and Zayn flushes down his chest.

“C’mon, like,” he stammers, looking away. “It’s _you_. Alright? And you’re me best mate and you don’t get shagged nearly as much as me so ― “

Liam corkscrews his fingers deep at that, stretching Zayn roughly, thumbing the rim until Zayn chokes out a moan.

“Fucker,” he croons, pushing back onto Liam’s fingers. “Not being rude.”

“Sounds like it,” Liam counters, keeping his fingers still.

“Li,” Zayn whimpers, trying to lift off Liam’s fingers to fuck himself back down onto them.

Liam cocks up his eyebrow again, daring Zayn.

“I mean,” Zayn sighs, tucking his chin, blinking down at Liam. “Dunno. I just ― it’d be okay, right? If you just fucked me like this. Bare? Shit, I know that sounds awful but ― “

Liam exhales, gently nudging his fingers back and forth again, twisting them. His tongue licks at his lips, leaving them shiny and Zayn could settle for snogging him. Just kissing away all of his stupid smirks and his geeky laughs.

All of the things that make Zayn so fond of him.

“You sure?” Liam asks, teasing in a third finger.

Zayn drags in a harsh breath, nodding. His skin feels feverish and he just needs and wants and he’s not ready to settle.

He’s not ready to just beg off this moment for clumsy carelessness or speeches about proper shagging procedures.

“M’okay,” he whispers.

Liam nods again, slower, looking a little amazed at Zayn like he’s ―

Zayn bites his lip and pretends not to hear the rattle of his heart because, for Liam, maybe Zayn is the start of something unspeakable.

(or maybe he’s always been that for Liam and he was just too daft to listen to his mates or his sister)

“Ride me?” Liam asks, half-pleads with this lopsided smile like he has to bother being so bashful.

“Geek,” Zayn mumbles, yelping when Liam pulls his fingers free. He peeks over his shoulder, smirking, watching Liam lazily wet his cock with the leftover lube and spit from Zayn’s arse.

“C’mon, babe,” Liam encourages, guiding Zayn backwards, lining his dick up with Zayn’s hole, teasing the head over it. It snubs over the slippery surface, almost catching, drawing shivers up Zayn’s spine. Pinpricks of sweat down Zayn’s skin when Liam adds, darker, “Wanna watch you.”

All of the hesitation seeps out of Zayn’s body when he spots those squinty eyes, the round of Liam’s smile, how loose he looks under Zayn. He eases back, biting a solid line over his lower lip, sucking in a quiet breath when the head of Liam’s cock nudges in.

It’s a familiar sensation ― feeling this _full_. Stretching around a stiff dick. Forgetting to breathe, remembering not to think. Just sink, lower and lower, clenching uncontrollably.

Zayn swallows, holding a moan in his throat. He grinds all the way down until he’s seated. There’s a nudge of something uncomfortable and achy in his muscles but he knows this part. He knows it’ll fade.

“Fuck,” Liam drags out, squeezing Zayn’s hips.

Zayn’s eyes flutter shut and he waits until he adjusts to this feeling. Being full, feeling the throb of Liam’s cock inside him. The way his muscles coil around the shaft and the little nudge of the head near his prostate. It’s hardly terrible or too much for him. It’s a sharp drag when he lifts up, just the tip holding him open. It turns blissful when he lowers back down onto Liam’s prick.

His spine arches and he exhales at the ceiling.

 _Incredible_.

“C’n get you a bit louder f’you just, _c’mon_ ,” Liam promises, trying to lift his hips.

Zayn shakes his head, this little telltale sign in his nerves that he’ll come from just this.

Sat in Liam’s lap, going up on his knees, squeezing around the tip before he shifts back down.

And this is familiar, too ― the rise and fall. Finding his own rhythm to grind down onto Liam’s dick. The rough breaths and quiet moans as he rides Liam.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, his cock fattening up again, Liam’s dick dragging over his muscles.

He keeps trying not to shift about so much but every angle, each lift onto his knees, draws up another noise from deep in his chest. This need to be _full, full, full_ chasing the slap of his arse meeting Liam’s hips.

Liam hums happily, flattening his feet on the bed to push up into Zayn, dicking into him.

It jostles Zayn, tugs a sweet moan off his lips. He settles his hands on Liam’s shoulders, trying to find his balance but losing a little momentum.

“Show me, babe,” Liam requests, still hitching his hips up to fuck into Zayn. “Such a good boy. Show me how y’ want it.”

Zayn nods, eyes still squeezed shut, his lower lip raw. Sweat dampens his hairline and a soft whine pushes off his lips. There’s a hitch in his voice and his throat has gone dry. His thighs ache but he keeps rolling his hips to meet each of Liam’s thrusts.

“Faster,” he whimpers. “Harder.”

Liam complies so easily, digging his fingers into Zayn’s skin. He wants the bruises, the mementos of Liam’s hands and this moment.

It’s noisy without their voices. The squeak of the bed and the squelch of Liam’s cock inside of him. So much lube, saliva from Liam eating him out. How loose he’s gone from the thickness of Liam’s dick. The echoing smack of his hips knocking against Zayn’s bum.

Zayn tries to move onto his knees again but Liam keeps pulling him back down. Stays buried inside of Zayn, rocking his cock in these minute thrusts that ache and feel incredible all at once. Nudging over those tingly nerves in Zayn like Liam understands what Zayn needs.

A deep, solid fuck that’ll make his thighs numb and his body sore for days.

(a bruising reminder that Liam will be _his_ in London; anywhere in the world)

“Oh fuck, like that,” he breathes, raggedly.

Liam scrunches his brow in concentration, thighs shaking as he thrusts up. His feet are flat on the sheets, giving him better leverage, a proper angle to sink into Zayn.

“Faster, Li,” Zayn whispers, trying to knock the pleading out of his voice.

Liam gasps, pinching Zayn’s hips, pushing in further. Too deep, right on Zayn’s prostate, striking a fire in Zayn’s belly that he can’t cool.

“You’ve gotten tighter,” Liam mumbles, his voice raw and scratchy.

Zayn’s done that to him ― took the edge out of his voice, the usual smile and dopiness. Melted him into something awed and exhausted.

He smiles to himself, rocking with Liam. His cock brushing over the fuzzy hairs around Liam’s navel, dewdrops of precome all over. He thinks to stroke himself off, pull off some of the tension, but Liam’s pulsing inside of him and encouraging him in this deep, breathy voice.

“Come. Like this. With me dick so fucking deep ― shit. How are ya squeezing around me like that? Can’t even think.”

Something curls in Zayn’s throat, a moan stretched out with oxygen, and he feels it in that caramel burn low in his belly.

He fumbles a hand between his legs, just to curl around the shaft, to calm all the shaking but he can’t stop it.

Zayn keens, toes curling into the wrinkled sheets. “Keep going,” he pleads, his thumb finally moving over the slippery head. “Just keep going. So good. Can come like ― “

“Babe,” Liam bites off and it shouldn’t be that simple.

Just a word. Just the softness of Liam’s voice afterwards and Zayn falters, leaning forward on his forearm, coming in long spurts up Liam’s belly. He’s shaking, spilling incessantly over Liam, clenching around the head of Liam’s cock.

Aching to be full again but too numb to slide back down Liam’s dick.

“Shit, Zayn,” Liam whines, mouthing at Zayn’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Gonna come?” Zayn asks, lazily, feeling knackered and incredible at once.

Liam nods, nipping at Zayn’s skin. He looks shy, sheepish like he’s crawling back into his skin. Shedding that filthy lad who teased Zayn with his tongue, rattled Zayn with his words.

Just some powerless bloke like Jimmy Olsen.

Zayn smirks, nuzzling down for a kiss, scooting back onto Liam’s cock. A gasp trips over his lips when he feels Liam pulse inside of him, coming with a hiccupped moan pressed to Zayn’s mouth.

“Mm,” Liam hums over Zayn’s lips, half-laughing into a smile. “Fucking hell.”

Zayn tuts at him, grinning, pressing their sweaty foreheads together. He feels lazy, too sensitive to really move but he lets Liam slide out of him.

It’s wet, the gradual slide of Liam’s come down the back of his thigh, the way Liam’s face crinkles at the noise of his cock popping out. Filthy, he thinks, amused. Zayn sighs, pleased, heavy eyes nearly blinking shut.

Liam flashes him a dazed smile and carefully curls an arm around Zayn’s spine. Liam rolls them away from the wet spots, nosing over Zayn’s shoulder, pressing him to the sheets.

“Too heavy?” he asks.

“No,” Zayn smiles, patting a sweaty hand over Liam’s arse. “M’good.”

Liam nods, exhaling over Zayn’s damp skin. He sniffs, tracing the ink on Zayn’s collarbone with a finger, wrinkling his brow.

“Need a shower,” Zayn groans, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” Liam breathes, his voice going dopey and timid.

With his clean hand, Zayn finds Liam’s jaw, angling it until they’re staring owlishly at each other. “That was sick, Li,” he says, loose lips edging into a lopsided smile.

“Yeah?”

Zayn nods, once. “Crazy, innit?”

Liam exhales, looking content like he knows what Zayn’s saying without all of the extra words. He sniffs, nuzzling down into Zayn’s neck.

“Glad you finally sorted it all out,” he whispers into Zayn’s skin. “Good lad.”

Zayn laughs raggedly, swatting at Liam’s arse. “You could’ve just, like, dunno. Could’ve said how ya felt or sommat. Didn’t have to wait on me.”

Liam hums, nodding. “Couldn’t get past the ‘fucking up a friendship’ bit. Messed with me mind, a bit. All the time, if I’m being honest.”

Zayn stays quiet under Liam, breathing softly. It’s a refreshing feeling, knowing Liam was careful about it all. A tad scared, like Zayn was. Not as daft on it all, but still.

He wants to be clever or poetic or wordy but he doesn’t think he needs to. Not with Liam.

Instead, he grins, whispering, “Couldn’t do that with me, Li. Could never muck this up.”

“Never?”

Another breathless laugh crawls out of Zayn’s chest. “Alright, maybe, you geek,” he says, scratching dull fingernails up Liam’s spine, rubbing in the cooling sweat. “But Batman didn’t always get it right, did he?”

A dry kiss presses to Zayn’s cheek and he thinks it’s an answer without all the neat words.

It’s an _‘I love you’_ in that incredibly stupid way Liam’s always been able to spell it out.

Zayn’s grateful he can finally see the neon lettering without trying.

 

//

 

He feels like he’s been holding his breath for ages.

That first taste of London air in his lungs infects his organs and Zayn feels so ―

Heathrow is stuffed with students returning from holiday and study programs. He trails his eyes over all the long hugs, the bright smiles, the silly banter between mates about nothing at all.

A summer wasted away in the sun.

He indulges in Zoe and Jade pecking each other farewell, Andy trying miserably to chat up some poor girl by the luggage claim, all of his classmates exchanging Twitter names and mobile numbers.

Zayn brushes his tongue over his lips, over his restrained smile. He tugs out his earbuds, the last of Miguel’s gentle _‘you know I know I belong to you’_ buzzing in his head. He thinks to say something to one of them, _any_ of them but ―

Fingers squeeze around his and Zayn’s mouth shifts into something crooked, happy. He remembers he’s never been into their social scene. He was never in their crowd.

It’s always been just him and Liam.

Him and his best mate.

(and a little _more_ , now, he thinks)

A dopey grin is teasing up Liam’s lips, his profile softened by the bars of sun fizzing through all the windows in the airport. He’s nicked Zayn’s old Boyce Avenue shirt, all the cotton stretched and far too tiny around Liam’s broad chest. There’s a visible mark on his throat near the collar (from Zayn’s lips, his teeth) and his mohawk is fucked from Zayn’s fingers during the flight.

(calming little strokes on his scalp while Liam kipped on his shoulder after take-off, rough tugs through it in the loo while Liam pressed Zayn to the tiny sink and slurped around his dick like he was _starved_ )

His sharp teeth brush over his smirk because Zayn can’t bear to look away.

And, in that second, he realizes he doesn’t have to anymore.

“Fuck,” Niall hisses, leaning on Louis outside by the taxis. The sun ropes off his dark Ray-Bans but his grin is wide and chapped.

Louis snorts, fringe peeking from under his cheap beanie, his lips quirking like he can’t help himself.

(Zayn swallows a breath, anticipating, refusing to let Liam’s hand go as they walk up)

(refusing to give a shit about his flatmates’ cheeky smirks or the way they keep sizing Zayn and Liam up)

“Y’look better together than I thought,” Niall hums.

Louis knocks a punch to Zayn’s shoulder, a rough _‘hello’_ and _‘I love you’_ that Zayn doesn’t need him to mumble. It’s a mutual feeling, the way his lungs spread and his chest heats up at Louis’ affectionate wink.

“Fifty quid, bro,” he snorts.

Zayn wriggles his eyebrows, tightening his fingers around Liam’s in a shameless manner. He’d give Louis all of his savings and more to keep _this_ ―

The holding hands and the pink blush on Liam’s cheeks and the kisses he knows he’ll press to the line of Liam’s throat just to get a reaction out of his mates.

“Fuck off,” Zayn smiles.

“Sort y’self out there, Malik?” Louis asks, reaching for their bags, Niall flagging down a driver in this outrageous way that reminds Zayn how much he missed London.

“Might’ve,” he grins, tucking his smile under Liam’s jaw, barely flinching when Liam’s stubble rubs over his temple.

“Thought so,” Louis huffs, pinching Niall’s arse when the taxi pulls around.

Niall yelps and Louis smiles like, yeah, he’s a bit daft on love too. Like maybe they’ve all sorted a thing or two out, accidentally, of course.

 

//

 

They crowd into a small coffee shop away from campus, sat at a wobbly table while Liam sneaks off to the counter for extras. Zayn feels like he can breathe, lazy in his chair, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, his fingers playing with the flame as Niall and Louis turn loud banter into grossly affectionate shit talking.

“Montana,” Niall grunts, knocking his forehead to Louis’.

“Don’t even know _where_ that is, mate,” Louis groans.

Niall rolls his eyes and Louis nicks Niall’s sunglasses, fixing them over his beanie like some bum surfer wasted on the summer.

“Vegas?” Louis offers, leaning back, dropping a relaxed arm around Niall’s shoulders.

Niall’s lips twitch into a coy grin. His eyes are dreamy, rosy cheeks fading like he’s still fondling his morning high with that casually warm way he’s always done.

(Zayn has missed it. Missed _them_ , honestly. He won’t say it out loud, not until Louis’ is dead asleep and it’s just him and Niall, whispering in their room while the city starts to calm outside)

“New York,” Niall suggests, putting on a brilliant accent.

Zayn snorts, shaking his head. He looks away when Louis sighs happily, sneaking a kiss off Niall’s lips. Affectionate bastards.

“Anywhere away from that feck Styles,” Louis groans, pouting and looking a bit cross when Niall giggles.

“Guess I shouldn’t tell you about ― “

“You _shouldn’t_ ,” Louis hisses before Zayn can finish. He’s scowling but, under all of that, Zayn can see the fondness.

(the bits of another Louis who remembers a fantastic summer and a love that stays written in your blood long after it’s gone)

“Next summer, yeah?” Niall begs, cuddling under Louis’ arm. “The lot of us. Studies in the States or sommat. Could make a holiday of it all.”

Zayn presses his lips into a pucker, keeping a laugh in his throat. He leans back, sniffing at the lingering hints of their coffees and teas, the stained wood of the shop, fresh pastries being set out on the counters.

A cozy little shop that feels a bit like places he’s been before.

(memories he created with a best mate tucked into his side)

“I reckon Australia wouldn’t be too dreadful,” Zayn shrugs, eyeing Liam as he rounds the table with his hands full, flopping down next to Zayn. “The surf would be sick, right? Proper beaches, like. Would be cool?”

He blinks at Liam, the doting little smile flicking over his lips when his eyes start to crinkle.

“You and the ocean?” Louis wonders, curving up an eyebrow.

Zayn nods, slowly, licking at the smile on his lips until it’s massive, his teeth showing.

“You’ll drown,” Liam teases.

“You’ll save me,” Zayn replies, reaching under Liam’s jaw to rub at his chin, cupping it. “S’what heroes do.”

There’s a thick dose of blush, bright pink like flower petals, blooming on Liam’s cheeks and he almost looks away but Zayn’s fingers tighten around his jaw. He keeps Liam’s attention a little while longer.

“Gross,” Louis coughs. “This lot, I swear.”

Niall grins like a kid buzzing on too much Halloween candy and Liam flashes Zayn an abashed smile when he nudges a saucer of toast and a cup of steaming tea at Zayn.

Like a magician, producing things with a sleight of hand. Still impressing Zayn without even trying.

“Thought you might like,” Liam pauses, exhaling like he’s trying not to give himself away.

Zayn grins, rolling his eyes, stamping down at the heat in his chest.

“Was thinking,” Liam says after a soft yawn, blinking sleep from his eyes, still a little knackered from the travel. He drapes a casual arm around Zayn’s shoulders, forcing Zayn to cuddle closer.

(not that he’d run from the opportunity, not now)

“Maybe we could see a bit of Asia next summer?” Liam offers, lowering his voice. “Tokyo? Bangkok? Maybe even Dubai.”

It feels like breaking all of the rules, Zayn’s mouth spreading into a massive grin. His eyebrows lifting encouragingly, this swell in his chest waiting to burst like a balloon. Liam’s fingers pulling through his hair, dragging on his scalp, enticing that calm in Zayn’s nerves.

(like smoking cigarettes at night or reading comic books in the dark or just being lazy with someone you love)

(a best friend, maybe)

“Really?” Zayn asks.

Liam gives an easy nod, smiling back. “Could be sick.”

“Sick,” Zayn repeats, feeling a bit mad with laughter.

So drunk on this feeling Liam keeps creating inside of him.

(That feeling he’s _always_ created inside of Zayn, since they were fucking about as kids with shit else to do in the middle of the summer but pretend to be superheroes)

“Could get some wicked photos out there,” Liam continues, tipping his head back, biting over his lip.

“Probably,” Zayn shrugs. “Nice views.”

Liam hums his approval, nodding absently.

“Pick up a few of those sick robots. Spend a day roaming the cities,” Zayn offers, leaning into Liam’s arm.

“Try out all the foods there?” Liam asks, cocking his lips crooked and teasing.

Zayn groans. “Alright, yeah, can’t be too horrible.”

“Reckoned you’d like that?” Liam says, lifting an eyebrow.

 _Yeah_ , deep in his chest, Zayn feels it start to finally burst. And it’s something like _love_ , he sorts out. The kind that goes marrow-deep.

He swallows that first taste of tea (earl grey, the way he likes) with Liam humming next to him and Louis and Niall swearing softly about raiding the city tonight, going on the piss, celebrating the end of summer.

(the start of something else, probably)

It all feels so _easy_ and Zayn knows he’s brilliant at a fourth thing now ― _making Liam smile without trying._

“Thanks Batman,” he mumbles, nicking a kiss from Liam’s lips, slouching down in his chair with Liam’s arm still curled around his shoulders.

It’s not an _‘I love you’_ but, admittedly, he’s still a little daft about that part.

He’ll write it all out in his journal later, arse-naked in bed and smiling, with Liam right by his side.

 

//

 

**London ― 19:45 PM**

_‘Called Doniya. Told her I’m madly in love with my best mate. Batman._

_She’s glad I figured it out. There’s hope for me! I hate her._

_I hate when she’s right.’_

 

//

 

Zayn smiles lazily, pressing his lips to Liam’s bare shoulder, their bodies spread out over Zayn’s bed. Clothes piled in a corner, the air of the room stale and thick from the summer heat. Niall and Louis fucking off in the city while they lie about.

Too knackered to do much else but pretend to watch _the Guardians of the Galaxy_ and shag shamelessly loud.

(because they _can_ and Zayn loves that)

Liam’s snoring softly, naked, drooling on Zayn’s pillow. Smears of lube between his thighs, a dirty flannel from their mess on the floor, the sour flavor of Liam’s come still at the back of Zayn’s throat. Fading little red fingerprints all over Liam’s hips. He’s still a bit wet, sweat drying on his forehead, tacky come between his arse cheeks.

Zayn likes watching him.

The sky turning orange and pink and London feeling so much like home.

Zayn snuffs his grin to Liam’s throat and exhales. Happily. Without thinking one bit.

He’ll ignore _‘the tide is high’_ in the morning and burrow deeper into Liam’s arms, swearing at the sun and laughing at the scrub of Liam’s stubble over his forehead.

And he’ll remember he sort of _accidentally_ fell in love with his best mate a bit like this.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed writing this piece so I hope you all enjoyed it too! it just felt so _easy_ this time around, so I don't know if that's good or bad? guess it's up to you to decide haha
> 
> thanks for all the kudos, hits, comments, and general love I've gotten from anyone reading my fics. all my love! x


End file.
